


Turning Saints Into the Sea

by mslilylashes



Series: Dubious [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe - After College/University, Alternate Universe - College/University, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Heartbreak, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Rehabilitation, Sex for Favors
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-29
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:13:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 23,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22904539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mslilylashes/pseuds/mslilylashes
Summary: Victor once told Sherlock that love shouldn't hurt, but then Sherlock went and broke his heart.From the end of Climbing Out of Love to the beginning of Dubious... This is Sherlock's journey from heartache to rock bottom, to recovery, and then the promise of a new love that he thought he'd lost his chance at forever. Uni!lock to present day.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/Original Male Character(s), Sherlock Holmes/Victor Trevor
Series: Dubious [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/57258
Comments: 17
Kudos: 24





	1. Part I -- Prologue -- 05 January 1997

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first chapter, still 05 January 1997, is the direct aftermath of Part XIII or Climbing Out of Love, and leads directly into my one shot, Rolling Thunder.
> 
> As always, thank you to everyone who has left some love. I appreciate it so much 😊
> 
> Xx lilylashes

PART 1 -- PROLOGUE -- 05 JANUARY 1997

Victor’s climax felt like he was being consumed by a fire that started deep in his belly, then engulfed him. Sex before Sherlock had certainly never felt like this, and even sex _with_ Sherlock — amazing and intimate though it had always been — had never produced this feeling of being flayed open, torn apart, and then pieced back together like a creation made by the mad scientist who was still buried deep in Victor’s body.

This. This is what centuries of authors, and poets, and musicians, and artists sought to emulate with their craft. This was… Love. His heart felt so full it hurt, and it was an altogether miserable feeling.

After a bruising kiss, Sherlock pulled out, and rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling and breathing hard, a sleepy, affectionate smile playing at his lips. Victor forced himself to take several long, slow breaths, waiting for his heart rate to normalise, but after a few moments, instead found his breathing coming more rapidly and shallow, and then — to his horror — actual _tears_ forming behind his closed eyes. They streamed silently down his cheeks, pooling in his ears, and Victor tried his damnedest to get ahold of himself before Sherlock noticed.

No such luck. Once his own breathing had normalised, Sherlock turned to his side, and propped himself up on his elbow to look at Victor, and immediately his happy, sated expression morphed into one of pure distress.

‘Victor, what…? he asked, sounding alarmed, and unsure, and even a bit guilty, ‘Are you hurt? Did I…?’ and he broke off, as if too horrified by that idea to even finish the thought.

Victor wanted desperately to reassure him, to tell him it hurt, but in the very best-worst way. He wanted to tell him he’d never felt anything like what they’d just shared, that it was _okay_ that Sherlock wasn’t ready to leave his boyfriend, because Victor could _wait_ , and that he was the only thing in life that was worth waiting for. He wanted to make a joke to see Sherlock’s brilliant smile, to say something snarky and cutting to hear Sherlock laugh at his attempt at sarcasm, to kiss Sherlock until midnight passed them by, then say _happy birthday,_ and kiss Sherlock some more. 

But instead what came out was,

‘Sherlock, I… I think… Oh god, I’m so sorry. Sherlock, I think I’m falling in love with you.’

And _oh fuck_ , that was _not_ any of the things Victor had wanted to say. Sherlock froze, and his mouth fell open. For one wild moment, Victor thought maybe Sherlock would be pleased — happy even — and that maybe he hadn’t made as grave a mistake as he thought he had, but then Sherlock all but leapt back from him, the look on his face absolute agony. 

‘No,’ he barked, and ripped the covers from the bed to cover his nakedness as he stalked over to the corner where his clothes had been flung during his and Victor’s frenzy earlier in the night, ‘No, Victor, you don’t know what you’re saying. Stop it, okay, just… Don’t,’ he pulled his pants and jeans on with trembling hands, and stood, his shirt balled tightly in his clenched fists, ‘Say… Say you didn’t mean it. Please,’ he begged quietly, ‘Say it was a mistake.’

And Victor wanted to… God, how much did he want to do any- and every- thing to make Sherlock stop looking at him as though he had just ripped his spine out, or lit the room on fire, or punched him in the gut, but he couldn’t. He had been suppressing those exact words for months — ever since his own birthday back in August, the first time they had made love, and Sherlock had been so vulnerable and generous and present. He’d felt those words a hundred times, but stoutly refused to put a name to it, and now that he had, he knew there was no way for him to go back, much like there is no way to unring a bell, or unfire a cannon.

‘It wasn't a mistake, Sherlock,’ Victor answered miserably, ‘You know it wasn’t. You know I’ve… You _know_ , Sherlock.’

‘Shut. The fuck. Up. Just shut up. Please,’ Sherlock growled, burying his face into his shirt, his back tense, shoulders around the ears, ‘No. You can’t. _Goddamnit,_ Victor, _I fucking told you not to do this_.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Victor, starting to swell indignantly, nearly shouted. He wanted so much to explain himself, to put all the months and months of quiet revelations into words, but found his emotions still threatening to choke him, ‘I can’t help how I fucking feel, Sherlock,’ he took a deep breath, ‘I can’t help that I lo-’

‘Don’t, Victor,’ Sherlock whispered desperately, ‘Please.’

‘-ve you,’ Victor finished, stubbornly, ‘And what’s more, I’m pretty sure you love me too. And I know you said you need time, but I can wait. I will wait. Sherlock, I will wait as long as you need me to. I would do anything for you, anything you need, anything at all.’

The funniest look crossed Sherlock’s face just then, and had it not been for Victor’s keen artist’s eye, he might not have caught it. Sherlock’s expression went from pleading, to hopeful, to understanding, to resolved, and then finally to what could only be described as cold and aloof, all within a matter of seconds. By the time Victor had finished speaking, Sherlock had squared his shoulders, and unballed his shirt, and swung it back around his shoulders. He began fastening the buttons in angry, jerky movements, and positively glared at the floor as he did.

‘I regret to inform you that you have been incorrect in your assumption,’ Sherlock said finally, his shirt now completely buttoned. He reached down, and stomped his feet back into his shoes, ‘I should have never allowed you to believe that I… That we… That what has taken place between us was more than the simple tawdry affair it was. It was only meant to be a bit of fun, Victor.’ He stared coldly down his nose at Victor, his eyes like ice, but Victor noticed his jaw clenching.

‘Stop it,’ Victor said quietly, ‘Why are you saying this?’

‘Because, Victor,’ Sherlock said with a sigh, ‘I should have never let it go this far. We got too involved, and you started imagining emotions that were never there,’ he swallowed, bracing himself, ‘You were a distraction; a challenge. But I’m certainly not about to give up a two year relationship for… For this. Victor, it… It’s over. I have to go. Please don’t follow me.’

Sherlock backed away from the bed slowly, and inched towards the door where his bad lay discarded from that afternoon when he had arrived not even twelve hours ago. Victor scrambled out of bed, reaching for his clothes, and hastily throwing them on.

‘What are you talking about?’ Victor asked desperately, ‘Where do you think you’re going? Sherlock, it’s nearly ten at night.’ He grappled for Sherlock’s hand, but Sherlock pulled away harshly, and they two boys stood toe-to-toe, not touching.

‘I’m going home, Victor,’ Sherlock responded flatly, ‘I… I never should have come here. Liam needs me, and I… I just need to go. If… If you ever cared for me at all, please just… Let me go.’ He leaned across the distance separating them, and placed a chaste kiss on Victor’s cheek. 

‘Goodbye, Victor,’ he whispered.

And then, he turned, and did the unthinkable; he picked up his bags, and walked away, leaving Victor behind. He walked away, and broke Victor’s heart. 

~*~

Sherlock closed Victor’s door quietly behind him, and leaned against the closed door for a few moments, his chest positively aching. Each beat of his heart seemed to send pins and needles screaming against his sternum, and it felt as though he was at the other end of a long tunnel; everything around him seemed to echo and ripple, and he felt as though he were floating and lost, with no way to reconnect the gravity. He padded down the hall to the kitchen in a daze, and rang for a cab to pick him up in fifteen minutes. Then, he just stood, his hands clutching the counter, lost in a daze. _How could it be… Over? How could he say goodbye to all of this… To Victor?_

‘Sherlock?’ he heard a soft voice ask from behind him after he had been frozen in stony silence for several long minutes. He started, but did not turn around. Moments later, Gen Trevor was laying a hand on his shoulder and asking, ‘Sherlock, what’s wrong? Are you okay?’

‘I… I have to go, Mrs Trevor,’ Sherlock said, his voice breaking, ‘I’m sorry,’ she didn’t say anything, just came ‘round to face him, the look on her face so full of love and concern, standing there in her dressing gown and pyjamas, that he found tears forming again, and she simply held him as he sobbed into her shoulder, ‘I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,’ over and over.

They stayed like that for a long moment while Sherlock got himself back under control. He finally pulled away, and said again, ‘I have to go.’

Mrs Trevor rested her hands on his shoulders, searching for something, examining him. ‘Did something happen?’ she asked softly, ‘Sherlock, it’s so late. Whatever’s going on, I’m sure it can wait until morning to get sorted.’

‘I already called a cab,’ he replied hollowly, ‘It should be arriving any moment. I… I’m sorry, Mrs Trevor. Please… Please keep an eye on Victor? And… Just… Thank you. For everything. I will always remember your kindness.’

‘Sherlock, you’re starting to scare me,’ she said urgently, ‘What’s going on?’

He stiffened, and gritted his teeth, steeling himself against the hateful words about to spill from his mouth.

‘Your _son_ ,’ he said as coldly as he could manage, ‘Needs you. Unfortunately it appears that he has misinterpreted the nature of our relationship. I regret to inform you that I am no longer interested in continuing to pursue him now that I’ve gotten what I wanted from him. If it behooves you, and you feel it will soothe his wounded pride, do feel free to tell him his performance in bed was well worth the facade of building a relationship with him all these months.’

‘ _Sherlock_ ,’ she said quietly, ‘What’s gotten into you?’

Sherlock swallowed hard, and did his best to glare at her, ‘I have no need for him any longer. He let me fuck him tonight, so the challenge is gone, and now I’m leaving. Good night.’ And he wrenched himself free from her grasp, and stormed back down the hallway, and out the front door. Much to his relief, and disappointment, no one followed him.

~*~

The cab arrived a moment later, and he threw his bags in the boot, then collapsed in the back seat.

‘ _Gillingham_ ,’ he barked at the driver, then rolled the window divider up, and absolutely fell to pieces. He crammed his fist into his mouth to cover the low, keening howls coming from deep in his throat, while tears streamed down his face. He buried his face in his hands, snaking his fingers around to grip the hair on the back of his head, and rocked back and forth whilst he sobbed, having never felt so sharp an ache in his chest.

He bunched the sleeves of the hoodie he was wearing ( _Victor’s hoodie)_ into his fists, and wrapped his arms defensively around his middle. It was then that he realised he left his birthday presents stacked in the sitting room where he opened them. He had a momentary pang of regret over not having grabbed at least the beautiful Belstaff coat and cashmere scarf, as he already felt the cold just from the brief wait for the cab, then decided it was probably for the best. The last thing he would need would be a constant reminded over everything he had lost when he walked out the Trevors’ front door.

He realised he was still crying, though now in earnest, only when the cabbie knocked gently against the dividing window, and wordlessly passed him a small packet of travel tissues when he rolled the divider back down. He accepted them without thanks, and did his best to clean himself up. He stared blankly out the window for the next few moments until the lights of the train station came into view. He blew his nose and wiped his eyes one last time before preparing himself to exit the cab, leaving Kent, the Trevors, and Victor well behind.


	2. Part II -- 06 January 1997

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS GALORE: graphic depiction of violence, graphic depiction of rape, absurdly unhealthy BDSM, sexual exploitation, abusive relationships revealed, dubious consent, brutal sex... Basically this whole chapter is straight trash, sorry. See end of chapter notes for a summary if you are on the fence as to whether to not you want to read this mess.
> 
> My one shot, Rolling Thunder, takes place between the last chapter and this one, and is referenced in the beginning. Check it out if you feel so inclined.
> 
> (Honestly, everything about this kind of sucks, but it does set the stage for how the rest of the story arc concludes, so I suppose it's a necessary evil?)
> 
> Regardless, thank you to everyone who has left some feedback lately. You guys are the bomb(dot)com.
> 
> Xx lilylashes

PART II — 06 JANUARY 1997

Twenty-one… Was miserable.

Sherlock woke alone, having come home to an empty flat the night before. His head and chest felt heavy and painful from the comedown from the cocaine and alcohol he had imbibed in the night before.

The cordless telephone clattered angrily to the floor when Sherlock upset it from its place resting on the bed, left over from his hysterical phone call to the radio station. His cheeks flamed red when he remembered how foolish he must have sounded, asking the deejay to play some inane rock ’n roll song to ease his aching heart. He vaguely remembered the radio host asking him to look him up at a hospital in London, and he mentally filed the information away, knowing he would never actually take the stranger up on his offer.

Sherlock flung the covers from the bed, and laid flat on his back, glaring at the ceiling. He’d never cared about his birthday before, but somehow, today, waking up alone with this infuriating pain behind his clavicle, was aggravating him to no end. He was angry, and sad, and hurt, and it just seemed grossly unfair that _this_ was how he was welcoming his twenty-first year into being.

After some time, he forced himself from his bed, and into the shower. Stripping off Victor’s hoodie was surprisingly harder than he thought it was going to be. It felt as though it was the final step in saying goodbye to everything he had held dear not twenty-four hours ago, but on the other hand, he needed to stop smelling like Victor’s body wash — for his own good.

He showered halfheartedly, and forced himself to get dressed afterwards. It felt like some sort of weird charade — to be going about everyday life when everyday life was irrevocably changed.

He threw himself on the sofa, and stared at the ceiling until some time around noon, he heard a key turn in the lock, and he turned his head to stare at the door.

Liam pulled his key from the lock, and stamped inside, shaking the snow from his boots. He started when he saw Sherlock stretched out on the sofa, and cocked his head to one side appraisingly.

‘Happy birthday, love,’ he said lightly, ‘How was dinner with Mycroft?’

Sherlock frown in confusion for a moment, then remembered he had told Liam he was off to his parents’ house in Brighton to celebrate his birthday when, in truth, he had gone to Kent to be with Victor.

‘Dull, as always,’ he answered, doing his best to sound natural, ‘The same pompous git he always is. He’s become master of his own universe, and my parents positively worship him for it, whist maintaining nothing short of contempt for me. Hence the reason I returned early.’

‘Funny, that,’ Liam remarked casually, hanging his coat in the closet, then turning back to Sherlock, ‘Cos the thing is, he called whilst you were out. Wanted me to let you know that your parents’ flight back from visiting your grandmother was going to be delayed, and to offer everyone’s sincere apologies that they would not be able to celebrate your birthday with you until the eighth, and that they all hope it won’t set you off into a strop.’

Sherlock froze. His mouth opened and closed several times, but he was at a loss for words; quick though his mind may be, it supplied absolutely nothing to help him save face and get himself out of this trouble.

‘So, I guess I should ask, then, _love,_ ’ Liam continued, his tone still airy and pleasant, ‘Where the _fuck_ you’ve been the last twenty-four hours. Run off with some other guy, then, have you?’

 _Lie,_ every fibre of Sherlock’s self-preservation screamed at him _tell him you’ve been at the lab, or at the library, or hiding out in a bloody bell-tower_ , but instead, he just nodded.

Liam pursed his lips, and crossed the room to sit on the sofa next to Sherlock. His eyes blazed with hurt, and his hands shook. ‘You were with someone else?’ he asked for clarification, as though he was unwilling to come to any sort of conclusion without first hearing the words in plain English.

‘I… I spent the night with another man,’ Sherlock admitted softly, ‘A friend. He wanted to celebrate my birthday, and I agreed. I’m so sorry, Liam.’ 

‘And… And do you have feelings for this _other man_?’ Liam asked, refusing to look at Sherlock. ‘Were you planning on leaving me for him?’

‘I… I thought it was something that it was not,’ Sherlock answered evasively, ‘I thought maybe… But I was wrong. I should have never even entertained the thought, but I did, and I am so, so sorry, Liam. Please, forgive me.’

Liam was quiet for a long moment, before he squared his shoulders, and looked up to meet Sherlock’s eyes. His own eyes were burning with an emotion Sherlock had never seen before. For the first time in their entire relationship, Sherlock was genuinely afraid. No beating or deviant act in the bedroom had ever sent a chill through his bones the way watching Liam stand there, still as stone, as Sherlock's admission of infidelity hung in the air between them. 

'I knew,' Liam said finally, hurt colouring his voice, 'I knew something changed. You were happy again... You haven't been happy with me in a long time. I... I knew something was up the day you started playing your violin again.

‘Liam, I am _so_ sorry,’ Sherlock said again desperately, ‘It was completely my fault. I… I didn’t know what I wanted. I was stupid, so stupid.’ Liam’s brow knitted together, and he drew in a few ragged breaths.

‘Did he fuck you?’ Liam asked finally, his voice trembling slightly. Sherlock’s head whipped around to stare at Liam in shock. ‘I said _did he fuck you_?’ Liam asked again, and this time his voice shook with anger, not sadness. Sherlock looked down and away; Liam grabbed his chin and snapped, ‘Look at me, Sherlock! _Did you let him fuck you_?!’

Sherlock, his face still immobilised by Liam’s rough grip, gave an infinitesimal nod.

And then, there it was, exactly what Sherlock had been waiting for. Liam’s fist came crashing into his face, and he cried out at he fell backwards, clutching his cheek. Liam wasted no time pouncing on him, straddling Sherlock’s hips, and pummelling his face and chest over and over. Sherlock tried to bring his arms up to block the blows, but Liam just batted his hands away, and forced them under his knees, pinning Sherlocks arms against the ground and leaving him completely helpless.

‘You... Fucking... _Slut_!’ He screamed, taking a fistful of Sherlock’s hair, and slamming his head against the ground, ‘After every fucking thing I’ve done for you, this — _this_ — is how you repay me, you piece of fucking shit.’

‘Liam,’ Sherlock whimpered, turning his head to spit out a mouthful of blood, ‘Liam, please. I’m sorry. I’m sorry,’ he sobbed, trying to catch his breath, his head aching and feeling as though it weighed about a hundred pounds, ‘Please. I’m sorry.’

Liam stared down at him, unmoved by his words, ‘Yeah, Sherlock, I bet you are. I bet you are sorry, you fucking sack of shit. Sorry your boyfriend on the side saw you for the pathetic whore you actually are, and dropped your arse the moment he was done fucking it. Does he know?’ Liam asked cruelly, a smile stretching across his mouth that did not quite meet his eyes, ‘Does he know that you’ll fuck and suck any dick placed in your path? Does he know that you’ve taken three cocks at once, and begged for more? That you’ll still come, even when you’re crying from fucking seven other men for hours on end? That you’ll literally crawl across the floor like a goddamn dog, if it means you’ll get off?’

‘Stop, Liam,’ Sherlock begged in a whisper, humiliation gutting him, and tears rolling down his cheeks, ‘Please.’

‘You were nothing when I found you, you stupid bitch. And you’ll be nothing again once I’m gone,’ Liam breathed, his rage now like ice instead of the fiery outburst it had been.

‘Please. Let’s work this out, please Liam,’ Sherlock pleaded desperately, ‘I’m so sorry. I’ll change, I swear, I’ll make it up to you.’

‘How could you?’ Liam asked quietly, ‘There’s nothing you could do to make up for this — you ruined us, Sherlock. How could I ever trust you again after what you did? How could I ever look you in the eye again knowing how you betrayed me?’

‘Liam...’ Sherlock whispered, ‘I’m so sorry.’ He shook his head to try to clear the blood and tears from his vision, ‘Please, let me fix it. Let me fix us.’

‘How,’ Liam said flatly, ‘How, Sherlock. I don’t think you can.’ He rolled off of Sherlock’s body, and sat back, his head in his hands, ‘I loved you with everything I had, and it still wasn’t enough for you.’

Sherlock forced himself to get up, and crawled over to where Liam sat, and pried his hands from his face. He stared deep into Liam’s eyes, searching for the faintest hint that all was not lost.

‘Please,’ he whispered again, ‘Please, Liam. Give me a second chance.’

Liam said nothing for a long moment, then nodded slowly. ‘Fine. Go... Go clean yourself up, and meet me in our room. We’ll... Talk.’

‘Thank you,’ Sherlock said, relief making him weak. He scrambled to his feet, and all but ran to the bathroom to wash his face.

The water stung. The soap stung. He rinsed his mouth out with more water, and that stung too. He could see bruises already blossoming across his chest and cheeks, his left eye beginning to swell.

Victor’s words from the day after his art show came back to him ‘ _But Sherlock... Love shouldn’t hurt_ ,’ but he shook his head to dislodge the thought. Betrayal hurt, though. Infidelity hurt. At that moment, Sherlock didn’t see a single mark on his body that he didn’t feel in his bones that he was entirely deserving of.

He quickly made his way to the bedroom, and found Liam sitting on the edge of the bed, staring brokenly into space. He hesitated in the doorway, not sure what to say or do. Liam glanced over to him, and the hurt look in his eyes was enough to bring Sherlock to his knees. He crawled over to Liam, and rested his forehead against his knee.

‘Forgive me,’ he pleaded into the denim of Liam’s jeans, ‘Please, Liam. I am so sorry.’

‘I can’t even look at you right now, Sherlock,’ Liam said distantly, ‘I just... You broke my heart.’

Sherlock scrambled to his feet, threw himself next to Liam on the bed, and took Liam’s face in his hands, ‘I didn’t mean to, I swear. I don’t know what I was thinking. Please. Let me fix this. Anything. Tell me anything, and I’ll do it, just give me a chance, Liam, please.’

‘I’ve never had anything hurt like this before,’ Liam said dully, ‘It just hurts, Sherlock. I don’t know what you’ve done to me, but it fucking hurts.’

A thought hit Sherlock then, so he swallowed hard, and offered faintly, ‘Would it... Would it help if you hit me again? Uhm... You could use, you know, something else if that would make you feel... Better? I won’t... I won’t fight back or anything. If you wanted to... You know, punish me?’

‘Yeah,’ Liam said, his eyes suddenly blazing again with fury and betrayal, ‘yeah, you know what, I think I fucking would. Pick something.’

Victor’s tormented face flashed back into Sherlock’s mind saying _I don’t want to torture you, I want to_ _talk_ _to you_ but Sherlock shook his head to dissipate that apparition, and instead reached a trembling hand under the bed, and pulled out the black duffle. He unzipped it and rummaged blindly inside, and pulled out the red and black flogger. It was the first deviant sex toy Liam had used on him, all those months ago. He handed it to Liam, and Liam snatched it from his shaking hand.

‘Take off your shirt, and go stand with your hands on the dresser,’ Liam whispered, ‘And fucking brace yourself, Sherlock, because this is _definitely_ going to hurt.’

Sherlock’s knees were positively shaking, but he forced his aching body to do his bidding, and stood ramrod straight as he undid the buttons of his shirt. He let it fall to the floor, not bothering to see where it landed, then he stood in front of the dresser, and leaned over slightly, feet shoulder width apart until he was bent over its surface, his hands bearing his weight, and his back and arse extended.

Liam stood behind him silently for a moment, and then… He pulled back, and brought the flogger crashing down against Sherlock’s back. The blow felt like fire, but his brain barely had time to process it before Liam brought the flogger down again. And again. _And again_.

Sherlock did his best to keep from screaming, but as Liam’s assault on his back became more frenzied, he could not keep the cries from coming from his mouth. After a dozen or so strokes, he was punctuating every blow with a soft scream. By two dozen, the screams were issuing from his mouth by their own volition. By three, he was sobbing.

His knees gave out and buckled, and he knelt, leaning heavily against the dresser, sobbing into the soft wood of its face, the words _I’m sorry_ tumbling over and over from his lips. One final blow, and he all but collapsed to the floor, curled into a foetal position with his knees drawn up to his chest, as he cried.

Liam strode over to him, dropping the flogger to the ground next to Sherlock’s beaten form. Sherlock cracked one eye open, and looked up at him.

‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered again. He struggled to a sitting position, leaning heavily on the dresser. He did his best to wipe his eyes, and focussed on Liam’s shoes. ‘Did… That help?’

‘I don’t know,’ Liam replied, his tone honest, but still cold, ‘I don’t know how I feel. I don’t know if I can get over this, if I can still feel the same about you.’

‘What can I do?’ Sherlock asked softly, tears falling freely again, ‘Liam, what can I do to show you we can get past this?’

Liam thought for a moment, the fire in his eyes still not satisfied by the sight of Sherlock weeping and bloodied at his feet. A hollow smile played at his lips, and he stared down his nose at Sherlock.

‘Let me fuck you,’ Liam said finally, the ghost of a smirk on his face, ‘Let me see if it still feels the same.’

Sherlock hung his head, knowing that Liam could ask just about anything of him right now, and there wasn’t much he would refuse him, but also knowing that being taken on his back would just about kill him. Still, he knew that if he was going to recommit to his relationship, Liam was owed reparations, so instead of protesting, he simply bit back his pleas for Liam to be gentle, and nodded.

Liam wasted no time undoing his flies, and pushing Sherlock onto his stomach, right there on the floor, and Sherlock decided to be grateful for that small mercy. It was only once Liam had roughly forced his jeans and pants down his hips that he realised Liam hadn’t grabbed the lube from next to the bed. He opened his mouth to remind Liam of this when he heard Liam spit into his hand, and then the next moment all words flew straight out of his head as red-hot agony overpowered him.

Liam forced his way in, and Sherlock _screamed_. He was nearly accustomed to being taken by Liam and his friends without the careful preparation Victor had always been so diligent about, but never had they fucked him before without at least a lubricated condom, if not a generous amount of lube. This was pain as Sherlock had never experienced it, not even when Liam had surprised him with double penetration during one such session with an associate. This was not about Liam seeking his own pleasure; it was about him hurting Sherlock.

‘Liam, _please_!,’ he begged, tears streaming again, ‘Please stop, please, I’m sorry, so sorry, please, please, please…’ His speech centre dissolved into ragged pleas, and wretched animal cries, and Liam only wound one hand into his hair, and _pulled_.

‘Is this how he fucked you?’ Liam panted, wrenching Sherlock’s head back so his aching back arched sharply, and his chest was pulled up off the ground, leaving Sherlock’s hands scrabbling helplessly against the rough carpet, ‘Is. This. How. He. Fucked. You. You. Stupid. Fucking. _Slut_!’ He punctuated each word with a brutal slam of his hips into Sherlock’s arse, and on the last word, he drove home with all his might, and came hard, digging his fingers painfully into Sherlock’s hips. He threw Sherlock from his grip, causing him to fall hard to the ground, and pulled his cock out harshly. It hurt almost as much as it had going in.

‘Bet you’re not going to come this time, are you, you fucking slut,’ Liam asked with a dark chuckle as he wiped himself off on what appeared to be Sherlock’s shirt, ‘God, Sherlock, I thought I could move on from this, but then seeing you there, spreading your legs like a fucking slag, and imaging some other dick up your arse… I know I’ll never be okay with that. Every time I fucked you, I would picture you whoring it up at that school of yours. So no, I don’t think there _is_ anything you could do to make it up to me. I was going to try to stick it out with you just to keep the flat, but turns out I can’t even stand the sight of you.’

Sherlock just moaned feebly from the ground, feeling his blood and Liam’s semen leaking from his abused arse, and he tried and failed several to pull himself up off the ground. Deep down, he had known Liam had no intention of forgiving him, but he knew he had to try. 

‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered again.

Liam just laughed. ‘Yeah, I bet you are. Tell you what; I’m going to leave now, and I won’t be back for a few days. By the time I get back, I’ll expect you and your shit to be gone. Or, if you’re still here, maybe I’ll bring some mates ‘round, and we can revisit the idea of recreating my birthday, yeah? Either way,’ he shrugged, and tucked himself back in his trousers, and left without so much as a backwards glance. A few moments later, Sherlock heard the door to the flat slam. He curled up on the ground, and cried.

He was beaten, broken, and bloody. He was well, and truly alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock returns to Oxford to find his flat empty. He wakes the morning of his 21st birthday alone and miserable. Liam comes home shortly after, and traps Sherlock into admitting he has had sex with another man (he does not reveal that it was Victor, or that they had an entire relationship). Liam absolutely beats the shit out of Sherlock, while he cowers and apologises over and over. Liam is a manipulative piece of shit, and Sherlock asks if he would feel better if he used 'something else' to 'punish' him, so Liam beats him with a flogger, then tells Sherlock he wants to have sex to see if it still 'feels the same', but it turns out this is an excuse for him to brutally rape Sherlock, verbally abuse him, and then leave after telling Sherlock to move out of the flat within the next few days.
> 
> Post-mortem will be up shortly, because I feel like this one needs alllll the explanations.


	3. Part III -- 07-08 January 1997

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More trigger warnings: description of injuries from abuse and rape, victim blaming, thinly veiled homophobia, shitty parents, lack of familial support. See end of chapter notes for a summary if you feel this content might upset you.
> 
> This part of the story is _so_ hard to write, because it's just so awful for Sherlock. He feels utterly lost and alone, and is unable to convey both his side of the story, as well was what he needs in the moment to survive. Again, as with the previous chapter, so much of this is integral to the story arc, but it does genuinely make me physically ill to get into the headspace to write, because I related to that sense of helplessness so hard.
> 
> Still, I thank everyone so, so, so much for your lovely feedback since the last update. I was so nervous about posting such a... Harsh chapter, so I do really appreciate any love being shown. Comments/kudos are my 7% ;)
> 
> Xx lilylashes

PART III

07 JANUARY 1997

Sherlock was not able to force his body to move until after midnight — he’d tried several times over the past few hours, but the pain in his back and face and arse had been too much to bear, and he’d even passed out a few times. Scientifically, he understood he had been, and likely still was in shock, so he’d scrabbled for one of the blankets from the bed, and done his best to cover his shaking body with it, all from the vantage point of the bedroom floor, because that was about all he could manage. The thin blanket did not do much to coax warmth back into his freezing, aching body. 

His head ached, and he was sure he was concussed from Liam repeatedly slamming his skull into the floor, so he tried his best to stay awake, which ended up being easier than he originally thought, partially due to the all encompassing panic and horrible fear that at any moment, Liam might return with the friends he had promised to bring around. Sherlock knew he would not survive another assault. Every bump and creak and closing of a door anywhere in the building caused his heart to seize in his chest, and his breathing to come in short rapid bursts.

Sherlock watched the clock click to one minute after midnight, and realised passively that his birthday was finally over, and found he was glad for it. He forced himself up on his shaking arms, bringing one knee at a time under him, until he was kneeling on all fours, struggling to regain control over his body. His jeans and pants were still around his ankles; his ruined shirt, stained with blood and Liam’s semen was tossed carelessly a few feet away. He worked his jeans and pants off the rest of the way, and crawled — dragged himself, really — out of his room, through the hall, and to the bathroom, where less than twelve hours ago, he had washed his wounds the first time, and steeled himself to submit to Liam’s temperament in hopes of salvaging their relationship. Now, he was not entire convinced he would be able to salvage his own sanity.

He sincerely doubted he would be able to stand for a shower, so he leaned heavily against the side of the tub, and began running a bath. The achingly painful memory of Victor doing the same task at his flat the night Sherlock had called him in a panic after his first tryst with cocaine flooded his mind, and he squeezed his eyes tightly closed, trying to force the memory from him by sheer force of will.

The first — and undoubtedly most unpleasant — thing he had to do would be take a piss to check for damage his kidneys, then check himself for tears. He knew he had bled during… _During_ , but he didn’t know how severe the damage was. He relieved himself, and was immensely grateful to find no blood in his urine.

Checking… The other end, was another story altogether. It _hurt_ , even as careful as he tried to be. The damage appeared to be moderate, but the thought of going to the A&E with these injuries was enough to make his stomach turn.

Gingerly, he used his upper body strength to pull himself to the edge of the tub, then lower himself into the water, a hiss escaping his lips. It didn’t quite hurt, but it wasn’t pleasant. Baths had always been his source of comfort when he was a small child, but this one did nothing to relieve his misery. He gave himself a perfunctory wash, trying to ignore how quickly the water turned pink as the blood was washed from his back and arse, and then struggled mightily to get out, dry off, and get back to the bedroom.

He crawled into bed, absolutely exhausted, and aching all over, the least of which was not radiating out from somewhere in the general vicinity of his heart.

~*~

Sherlock woke awhile later, still nude from his bath, and still thankfully alone. His sleep had been a fitful one; he continued to be thrown into a mild panic every time he heard any other sound from outside the flat. Liam had said he would return in a few days, but the fear that he might show up early was a visceral one. 

He rolled over and stretched, and his back vehemently protested as several wounds that had just begun to heal broke open again. Wincing, he struggled to sit upright, and just sat at the edge of the bed for several minutes while he tried to get his bearings. The pain radiating from everywhere made him nauseous.

He remembered then that he still had several bags of cocaine stashed around the flat, and it was that thought, and that thought alone that got him off the bed. Sometimes staggering, sometimes limping, and sometimes crawling, he made his way to his bookshelf, and pulled out several thick texts, revealing a small box shoved behind them. Three small bags were tucked inside, and Sherlock grasped them in his fist like a man stranded in the desert might clutch a bottle of water. He stagger-limp-crawled to the night stand, prepared some lines, and snorted them, waiting miserably for it to enter his bloodstream.

 _Victor had asked him once about having sex whilst high, when Sherlock had confessed it made the hurt go away when Liam and his friends fucked him for hours. Sherlock had tried to describe the sensation as vaguely as possible, saying it was ‘an experience’, and Victor had bit his lip and asked Sherlock if that was something he would ever want Victor to try. The idea made Sherlock sick; Victor, of all people, should not entertain the idea of drugs, and especially not for Sherlock’s benefit. Victor had too much to live for_.

The cocaine hit, and it was as though the pain from Sherlock’s injuries began seeping away, and the vicelike grip of heartache in his chest loosened slightly. He shook his head, and for the first time in days, grasped just the slightest bit of clarity. He was finally able to suffer through getting dressed, letting only faint hisses of pain escape his lips as he threw on jeans and a t-shirt, knowing that no amount of buttoned-up cuffs would conceal his injuries this time. He spotted Victor’s hoodie peeking out from a corner, and, gritting his teeth against a new wave of emotion, pulled it on. It still smelled like Victor, but he pushed this thought away with a vengeance. 

He had to formulate a plan. The first order of business, he decided, was to collect the rest of the cocaine from around the flat. He’d already made up his mind to not go to hospital for his injuries, which also meant he would unfortunately not have access to prescription painkillers. Cocaine was the next best solution, and had the added bonus of forcing his brain to function on a higher plane that perhaps his broken heart could not reach.

Once he’d cleared out his and Liam’s various hiding spots, he found he had a sizeable stash, which he hastily shoved into his pocket. He rummaged in his sock drawer, and was able to come up with a much smaller collection of cash.

The next thing he needed to decide would be where to go, because he knew another run-in with Liam would only end in disaster one way or another. Longingly, he thought of the familiar train ride back to Kent, and for a moment, let himself imagine showing back up at the Trevors’ household. Mrs Trevor would sweep him up into one her of amazing hugs; Victor would tend to his injuries with concern and care…

He shut that fantasy down immediately, remembering the horrible, disgusting, harsh words he had forced himself to say to Victor’s mum to get her to allow him to leave. ‘ _Your son needs you… He let me fuck him tonight, so the challenge is gone, and now I’m leaving_ ’… And Victor, good god, _Victor_ … He had been even worse.

 _He suddenly remembered an old song that Grand-mere used to play over and over on her record player at her seaside cottage in France. The name escaped him somehow, but he remembered the ending line ‘_ If I broke your heart last night, it's because I love you most of all…’ _She would play it in her parlour, and she and Sherlock would sway back and forth when he was sad, not understanding how the world could be such a lonely place, even as a small child. Sometimes he would just curl up in her lap in one of her plush wing chairs whilst she stroked his hair, and murmured words of love and understanding for his sorrow._

~~He broke Victor’s hear last night… Because he loved him most of all.~~

It was so stupid, the whole situation. As sad as he was, he was also angry. Angry at himself for reacting so irrationally. Angry at Victor for not being able to keep those words inside for a few more weeks. He knew logically he should be the most angry at Liam for being at the centre of all this chaos, but the only thing he felt now towards Liam was fear.

That brought him back to the urgent matter at hand, which would be finding a place ( _not Kent_ ), to stay until he could figure out his next move. Mycroft was in London, but almost certainly not a viable option. His brother could barely contain his disdain for his continued existence; the last thing Sherlock wanted to do would be to come begging for him to save him again. Sherlock had no other mates.

That left his parents’ home in Brighton. He contemplated the idea, and was surprised with the strong sense of yearning that accompanied it. Tremulous though his relationship with his parents may be, at least it was safe, not Mycroft’s post flat, and _not Kent_. He wanted… To go home.

He remembered Liam saying Mycroft had called saying that his family would not be reachable at Holmes House until the following day, but knew there was no way he could stand the anxiety of being in his flat for another hour, much less and entire day, so he decided the first thing he would do would be pack whatever he wanted to keep safe into his overnight bag to take with him, and then head to the train station. He would sleep on the train or at the station if he had to.

His mind made up, he went about the flat, collecting a few items of clothing and some books (most of which had been lent to him by Victor, but he pushed that thought from his mind), and stuffed them into his overnight bag. Looking around to see if there was anything he’d missed, he spotted the skull Victor had given him for Christmas. It was like a punch in the gut, but he just wrapped it carefully in one of his shirts, and placed it gently into his bag, and zipped the whole thing shut. He grabbed his violin, and after topping off his high when the ache in his back (and backside) started to come back, grabbed his bag and his violin, and headed out the door.

Armed with Victor’s hoodie, a few bills in his wallet, a pocketful of cocaine, his violin, and his bag, Sherlock staggered from his flat. The sun shone surprisingly bright, and that seemed grossly unfair that the world could continue turning on its merry axis whilst every part of Sherlock’s life was in chaotic disarray.

He raised an aching arm to flag down a cab, loaded his belongings into the boot, and let himself be driven away from the life he once knew. 

~*~

08 JANUARY 1997

The wait overnight to be able to return back to his parents’ house was one of the longest nights Sherlock had ever experienced. He’d been too nervous at the prospect of seeing Liam around town to feel comfortable spending time in Oxford, so he hopped the short train to Reading with the idea to waste some time in town before heading back to the station, resting for a few hours, then taking the first available train to Brighton. He hadn’t, however, taken into account at how other people might perceive his presence; between his haggard expression, beaten face, wrinkled hoodie, old trainers, and large bag, almost every establishment he’d tried to loiter in had asked him to vacate, with varying degrees of politeness. The nicest had been a cafe he’d found, and went in for a coffee and to read a bit; they’d let him stay for about an hour ‘to warm up’, but then had made increasing visits to his table to ‘see if there was anything else the gentleman was needing today.’ He took the hint, and left.

He’d been stopped by no less than three coppers, but when he was able to show his identification and they saw his violin case, they were more at ease about his presence on various benches and street corners. He’d surreptitiously moved his cocaine from his pocket to his sock, though the collection was now considerably smaller. He knew this was rapidly approaching the most he’d indulged in ever, but the stimulant was the only thing currently keeping him upright, so he was in no position to argue.

Once night fell, he stopped at a diner for something to eat, and ordered more food than he could ever imagine to eat, just so the waitress would let him keep the table for longer. He found himself too wound up and anxious to eat, so he finally asked for a bag to take the food to go, and ended up giving the whole feast to a homeless man leaning against the doorway outside.

Finally, it was past midnight, and Sherlock felt as though he had conceivably wasted as much time as was possible, so he made the slow walk back to the train station. It was close to one by the time he returned to the station, and purchased a standard ticket for the two o’clock train with as many changes as possible. For someone who had always liked to live fast and loud, having to wait around for no good reason was nothing short of torture.

His first train pulled into the station, and he boarded, immediately commandeering a window seat. He leaned his head against the glass, and closed his eyes as the train pulled away from the platform. It felt good to finally be moving with purpose.

~*~

Almost five hours, and three changes later, Sherlock’s final train pulled into the station at Brighton. He’d only been able to sleep for an hour here and there, and he was absolutely exhausted. The second he disembarked, he made a beeline for the loo, and finished off his second to last bag of cocaine, then he set off in search of a cup of coffee, which he purchased from a cart vendor outside the station. 

Knowing it would likely still be a few hours before his parents would be receptive to having a visitor, he sat on a bench with his coffee, his body positively thrumming with anticipation. After everything that had taken place since leaving Victor’s house, all he wanted in life that very moment was to lie down in his old bed, and maybe has his mother hold his hand as he fell asleep like she had on a few rare occasions when he was ill as a child. He’d never been one to cherish returning to his childhood home, but at that moment, all he wanted was the solace of the familiar.

Once it was finally after eight, Sherlock hailed a cab, and gave his parents’ address to the driver. If the cabbie thought anything was odd about driving a disheveled young man to such a grand house, he made no comment, and for that Sherlock was immensely grateful. The cab glided easily down the long drive, and deposited him in front of the intimidating double doors. Sherlock paid gratefully, and nearly bounded up the front steps, the need for some comfort and sleep nearly visceral.

He raised the brass knocker, and rapped it impatiently against the door. Moments later, a housekeeper Sherlock did not recognise answered, and did not bother to conceal her disgust at seeing what stood on the front step.

‘Can I help you?’ she asked haughtily, gripping a tea towel in one hand, and looking very much like she would like to use it to shoo Sherlock from the property.

‘Yes, you can move aside, and let me in,’ Sherlock replied, doing his best to match has condescending tone. Her eyebrows raised at that, and she sniffed dismissively.

‘I don’t think so, young man, now I suggest you be off before I ring the police,’ she said, and began to close the door. 

‘I will _not_ ,’ Sherlock said, his voice raising, and he slammed his fist against the door, ‘Now move aside, and let me see my mother!’

‘Your _mother_?!’ the housekeeper repeated incredulously, ‘And who is your mother?’

‘ _Violet Vernet Sherrinford-Holmes, you insipid woman!_ ’ Sherlock roared, his exhaustion coming out in the form of rage, ‘I swear to god, I will go _through_ you if you don’t _move_ and _let me in this goddamned house right now_!’

‘That language is simply unnecessary,’ the stupid woman snapped, affronted, ‘You wait here, and I will see if Mrs Holmes is taking visitors today. She’s just returned from travel.’

Sherlock opened his mouth to let loose another stream of vitriol, but the woman turned and abruptly shut the door in his face, and he heard her footsteps departing from behind the closed door.

It started to rain in earnest, and Sherlock shifted, doing his best to shield his violin case, when suddenly his mother appeared at the door, looking most unimpressed. Sherlock thought she might gasp at the sight of his heavily beaten face — truthfully, he’d hoped she would take him in her arms and comfort him — but he wasn’t prepared for the look of tired resignation and disappointment that radiated from her folded arms and pursed lips.

‘Sherlock,’ she greeted him evenly, ‘Liza said you were raising a right fuss out here. What’s all this about.’

‘She wouldn’t let me in,’ Sherlock explained weakly, ‘I just wanted to see you.’

‘Well too right she wouldn’t let you in; look at you!’ his mother replied as though this should have been obvious, ‘Honestly, I can’t believe you decided to go about in public like this; imagine if you’d been seen by one of our friends, Sherlock. You look like one of those drug addicted ragamuffins.’

Of all the comments Sherlock thought his mother might make about his current physical appearance, this type of criticism wasn’t what he was expecting, though he supposed perhaps he should have been. His parents had always given great care to maintaining appearances, and what the neighbours might think about all manner of things, so he supposed he should have expected his mother to be appalled and mortified at the idea of him being out whilst looking so… Undesirable.

‘I’m sorry, Mum,’ Sherlock said, his voice breaking, ‘Please, can I come in? I… I really need you right now.’

‘Now is not a good time, Sherlock, Father and I were about to meet the Wilmingtons for lunch at the club,’ his mother replied, not surrendering even an inch of space inside the doorway, ‘You really should have called and saved yourself a trip.’

‘Can I just come in, and wait for you to get home?’ Sherlock asked desperately, ‘I don’t have anywhere else to go. Liam… It’s over with Liam, and I don’t think he’ll let me back in the flat.’ He didn’t want to say that Liam had threatened to gang rape him if he returned; that was something his emotionally delicate mother would never be able to handle.

‘I heard,’ his mother said, and now there was a distinct cold note in her voice, ‘Mycroft rang earlier to say that Liam had reached out to let him know what was going on. Sherlock I don’t mind telling you, Father and I are extremely disappointed in you. How you could manage to ruin things with such a nice young man is beyond me. Father is not too please either; he had such high hopes Liam would get you to finally settle down, and get a respectable job after graduation. I think it’s best if you go back to Oxford, and find a way to work things out before it’s too late.’

‘I can’t!’ Sherlock said, and he was beginning to panic, ‘He… I can’t go back. He won’t let me. That’s why I came here.’

‘Enough, Sherlock,’ his mother said sternly, ‘You’re going to make us late for lunch. Now, you listen to your mother: you turn right around and march back to your flat, and work things out with Liam like an adult. You’re twenty-one now, Sherlock, far too old for to be carrying on like a child.’

‘Mum,’ Sherlock whispered, tears filling his eyes, and threatening to blind him, ‘Please. I… It hurts, Mum, everything hurts.’ He wrapped his arms around himself, willing his body to stop shaking as the rain picked up, and cascaded heavily down on him.

‘Oh, Sherlock,’ she murmured disapprovingly, taking a step backwards to stay safe from the wet, ‘Always so dramatic. Come now; you know better than to carry on like this. You best be off… You know if your father sees you like this, he will be most displeased.’ She made a move to close the door, but Sherlock threw a desperate hand up to stop her

‘ _Mummy_ ,’ he cried, finally breaking, ‘ _Please,_ let me come home. I want to come home, please Mummy, please.’

‘ _William Sherlock Scott Holmes_ ,’ she snapped, her careful benevolence shattering, ‘That’s _enough_ now! You ought to be ashamed of the spectacle you’re making of yourself. Now, your father and I don’t pay for that lovely flat in Oxford for you to come running home at the first sign of trouble. Liam is a fine gentleman; whatever you’ve done wrong, you better find a way to make it up to him. You know, Father and I didn’t say a single word about your homosexuality, because we could see what a smart match you made. Not every homosexual partner out there would be so well received by society, so you better think long and hard about what it will mean to lose him. Get yourself together; caring is not an advantage in this world, young man, so it’s time for you to grow up, and conduct yourself like a _man_ , and stop this childish nonsense.’

And with that, she shut the door firmly in Sherlock’s face.

He just stared at that brass knocker, as the rain continued to pour down upon him, camouflaging the tears streaming down his cheeks, as realisation hit him that the ground could open up and swallow him, and not a single fucking person on this horrible, hateful, planet would give a damn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock deals with the aftermath of the brutal beating and rape from Liam the night before by making a plan to leave Oxford and return to his parents' home in Brighton. He is afraid to remain in Oxford for any amount of time due to Liam's threat of gang rape if he is still in the flat when Liam returns. He flees to Reading for a day while waiting for his parents to return home from France (as per the phone message Mycroft left with Liam while Sherlock was at Victor's.) Sherlock is in immense physical, emotional, and mental agony, and copes with this by taking what really is an unsafe amount of cocaine.
> 
> He finally arrives at his parents' house, only to be refused entry by his mother who has heard from Mycroft that Liam and Sherlock have broken up. (Liam wasted no time calling Mycroft to spin his version of events, no doubt.) She harshly berates Sherlock for 'managing to ruin things with such a fine young man', tells him he better go straight back to Oxford and fix things, and then even makes some homophobic remarks about Sherlock's sexuality and possibility for finding a partner society would be receptive to. The chapter ends with Sherlock absolutely gutted, staring at the door his mother closed in his face.
> 
> (I will post a combined post-mortem for this and the previous chapter once I have the time, because I do feel like this horribleness might need some backstory.)


	4. Part IV -- 08-10 January 1997

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I realised I kind of wrote myself into a corner by using the current prologue, because it literally takes place smack in the middle of this chapter, on 09 January 1997, so I ended up deleting that bit from the beginning of the story, and inserting it here. I apologise for any confusion this might cause, but I think overall, it is a better choice. I wanted to try something new, since for the other two stories, the prologue and epilogue were letters between Victor and Sherlock, but in the end, I didn't like how it interrupted the flow of the plot. So here we are.
> 
> Trigger warnings for this chapter are only for the bit that was the prologue: sex for drugs, hopelessness, overdose. The new bit is mainly Holmes brothers being Holmes brothers. See end notes for a bit more insight.
> 
> Thanks again for any and all feedback; it its my 7%.
> 
> Xx lilylashes
> 
> 06 March 2020 UPDATE: Apologies to anyone who read this chapter last night/earlier this morning... For some reason, the original version I decided was confusing uploaded, instead of the one including the old prologue. Issue is fixed now. *facepalm*

PART IV

08 JANUARY 1997

Faced with the closed door, and pouring rain, and running on little sleep, and no food, Sherlock turned slowly, and made his way back down the long drive. It was then that he realised that perhaps he should have made the cab wait.

On the long walk back to the main road, Sherlock realised he now had no choice but to turn to Mycroft. There were literally no other options left to him, and his exhaustion was so alarmingly severe, that even the thought of Mycroft’s pompous face couldn’t overrule his need for a place warm to sleep.

It wasn’t a great solution, but at least now he had direction and a purpose. Trying mightily to not think about how utterly hurt and betrayed he felt by his conversation with his mother, he plodded determinedly on, quietly contemplating how his entire world had fallen apart in just over forty-eight hours.

If he’d known what the next forty-eight would bring, perhaps he would have taken a moment to savour what little normalcy he had left.

~*~

09 JANUARY 1997

The train ride from Brighton to London was nearly unbearable. Before boarding, Sherlock had taken what little remained of the cocaine he brought with him from Oxford, and it was the only thing keeping him from collapsing from pain and sheer exhaustion. He’d been able to steal an hour or two of sleep when he’d squeezed himself into a somewhat hidden space between phone booths at one of the less populated platforms, but it was nowhere near enough. 

Once boarding, Sherlock stayed huddled against the window for the duration of the ride with the hood of Victor’s hoodie pulled right around his face, blatantly refusing to respond to any attempt to engage him in conversation. 

He’d thought that the comedown the night he’d first tried cocaine was the worst he’d ever felt, but the heaviness in his chest that night was absolutely nothing compared with how very empty he felt just then. He’d always been lonely, but the isolation he felt at that moment was almost enough to break him. Somewhere deep inside, he’d always thought that his parents would offer him a safe haven if things with Liam ever got out of hand, and having that last safe space turn out to be a pipe dream was... Not good. He thought briefly of the love and comfort he had felt from Victor’s parents, and his chest positively ached because he had given that up.

The train finally pulled into the station, and he grabbed his overnight bag and violin, squared his shoulders, and exited the train. He made a beeline for the first telephone box he saw, and dialled Mycroft’s office number from memory, his heart pounding in his chest. When he heard the chirpy voice of his secretary answer the line, he had to swallow hard to not have his emotions explode all over the place.

‘Erm... Mycroft Holmes, please,’ he said, his voice cracking slightly.

There was a pause, ‘Mr Holmes is unavailable at this moment, may I ask who’s calling, and I’ll leave a message for him?’ The secretary asked coolly.

‘Please, I need to speak with him,’ Sherlock pushed, breathlessly, ‘It’s urgent.’

‘Sir, I understand you would like to speak with Mr Holmes, but he is a very busy man, and unable to come to the phone,’ the woman insisted, entirely unruffled.

‘Sherlock. Tell him it’s Sherlock, and I need to speak with him,’ Sherlock replied, panic beginning to seep into his voice, ‘Please.’

‘I’ll give him the message, but unfortunately he has back to back meetings for the rest of the day. May I suggest scheduling an appointm-’

Sherlock slammed the phone down, startling the travellers streaming past. He brought his hands up to cover his face, and tried to force himself to breath slowly, but instead found tears seeping into the sleeves of his sweatshirt. It was the pain of being turned away from Holmes House by the housekeeper all over again.

This was it. This had been his final hurrah, his very last resort, and it had failed. 

In a daze, he picked up his overnight bag and violin case one last time, slung them over his shoulder, and stepped out into the crowd. He’d been to London many times before, and had loved the hustle and bustle of being anonymous surrounded by so many different people, but this time, he just felt invisible.

He stalked purposefully out of the train station, wandering blindly for the next few hours, having never felt so alone.

~*~

Sherlock tried two more times to contact Mycroft, and then even went so far as to show up in person at his office, but hadn’t even made it more than ten feet inside the door before being escorted out by security. He knew he must look a fright with his bedraggled clothes and severely beaten face, so in some sense, he didn’t quite blame them for keeping the riffraff from soiling the plush lobby. 

On the other hand, he was getting increasingly desperate. He was freezing, having only worn Victor’s sweatshirt, and a pair of trainers that were now soaked from the snow and slush, and he hadn’t eaten since he left Oxford. Dark was falling quickly, and he realised that if he didn’t connect with Mycroft, he would have nowhere to sleep that night. The wind howled around him, and he wrapped his arms around himself, and adjusted his bag on his shoulder. He had spent nearly all his cash on train fare and phone calls.

He’d been pacing the few blocks surrounding Mycroft’s office for the last hour, hoping to catch his brother as he left work for the night, but so far, not a single soul had exited the building, so he sat on a bus bench for a moment, as exhaustion threatened to overwhelm him. His stomach growled, and he shivered with the cold.

A moment later, a man sauntered over, and sat casually down next to Sherlock, but he paid him no mind until the stranger turned, and Sherlock could feel his eyes raking over Sherlock’s body. He shivered again, though this time had nothing to do with the cold.

‘You look lost,’ the stranger remarked nonchalantly, ‘Definitely haven’t seen you around these parts before.’

‘London’s a big city,’ Sherlock snapped, in no mood to be bothered. The stranger chuckled.

‘And yet... I know mostly everyone who... Frequents this area,’ the stranger replied lightly, ‘You look like you’re itching for some company.’

‘I can assure you that’s not the case,’ Sherlock said, turning to glare at the interloper, who just smirked.

‘Okay, maybe it’s something else you’re itching for, then?’ He asked suggestively, and slipped his hand into the inner pocket of his jacket. Sherlock stopped breathing for a moment when he withdrew his hand, and saw the stranger holding a small baggie of cocaine. His eyes must have widened, because the stranger smirked again, ‘Thirty quid.’

‘I... I don’t have that much,’ Sherlock admitted quietly, ‘I left home in a hurry.’

‘Bet you did,’ the stranger snorted, and then turned fully to face Sherlock, ‘I’ll tell you what: I have some other stuff here for a discount price, a special combination.’ He pulled another bag from inside his coat that held a slightly grey-ish powder, ‘To help warm you up.’

‘I...’ Sherlock said, transfixed, ‘I still don’t have any money to give you.’

‘I’m sure we can work something out,’ the stranger said, his eyes glittering as he shook the bag a bit, ‘I’m a nice guy; I’ll take other forms of payment.’

Sherlock bit his lip, and lowered his eyes to his soaking wet trainers. The full force of the last few days hit him full force, and the temptation of oblivion was too good to pass up.

‘Okay,’ he whispered, hating himself, ‘What...?’

‘This way,’ the stranger said, triumph in his voice. He lead Sherlock to an alleyway a few buildings away, and pushed his back against the bricks once they were no longer in view from the street. The smell of rubbish and urine was pungent, and Sherlock felt his heart hammering away in his chest. The stranger grabbed Sherlock’s hand, and slipped the drugs into it almost gently before claiming his mouth in a bruising kiss. Sherlock stood rigidly against the wall, his eyes jammed shut, and did nothing to either encourage, not dissuade the stranger’s advances.

‘That mouth,’ the stranger murmured against his lips after a few moment, ‘Use it.’

Sherlock sank to his knees, and did his best to fight back tears as the man shoved a condom into his hand. He rolled it onto the stranger’s cock, and opened his mouth. The other man wasted no time plundering his mouth, thrusting so hard that Sherlock’s head bounced repeatedly against the brick wall until he raised one of his hands to cushion the blow. Thankfully, the brutal blowjob didn’t last long, and a few moments later, the man was coming hard. He pulled out, smacked Sherlock affectionately across the face, and tucked himself away.

‘I’ll be around if you find yourself looking for company again,’ he said with a grin, and with that, he was gone, leaving Sherlock still kneeling in the filthy alley, the wet grime from the ground seeping into his jeans, chilling him further. But he had the baggie clutched in the hand that had not been pounded into the wall, and that was all that mattered.

The only surface around that Sherlock could conceivably use to take the drugs was the skip, and at that point, he felt so wretched he didn’t even care. He pulled a card from his wallet to clumsily arrange it into lines, and snorted the lot. The effect was different than when it was pure cocaine; instead of the rush and electricity running through his veins, this was more like a slow burn. The cold and pain seemed to melt away from his body, and was instead replaced by the strongest feeling of euphoria that Sherlock had ever experienced. After the trauma and turmoil of the last few days, the relief was enough to make Sherlock want to weep. So he did.

He stumbled back out to the main road, no longer caring that he was sopping wet and frozen. He staggered back towards Mycroft’s office building, each step feeling as though he were floating forwards on clouds, or being carried away on the tide. He made it almost all the way there, when suddenly walking seemed ridiculous, so he stopped abruptly, and sank to the ground, leaning against the gate of an adjacent building. Vaguely he acknowledged that sitting down in the cold and the wet was probably a terrible idea, but he couldn’t feel it anymore, so he wasn’t too bothered.

His heart was still pounding, and his breath came in quick, shallow bursts that manifested in little white puffs against the dark sky. Idly, he regarded the stars twinkling above him, and remembered telling Victor that someday he wanted to live out his days in the country where he could see the stars. He’d inadvertently invited Victor into his fantasy, and promised him honey for his tea as they grew old together. But now Victor was gone.

His face was still wet from the tears that refused to stop flowing as he tilted his head back, and stared blankly into the abyss above him. Maybe he would still live out his days counting the stars.

He was so tired.

He closed his eyes — just for a moment — and let the darkness fall over him like a warm blanket. Like the covers he had pulled from Victor’s bed the night Victor had played that song for him on his piano, and Sherlock had sipped wine from a coffee mug, and felt so very, very loved. Not like when Victor had made the mistake of actually saying the word love, and Sherlock had made the mistake of leaving. It had all been a mistake. Everything had been a mistake.

He allowed himself to drift away into the darkness, slumped over on his overnight bag, Victor’s sweatshirt wrapped around him — a poor imitation of what only a few short days ago had been Victor’s arms.

The last thing he heard was a familiar voice shouting his name, and the clatter of a bamboo handled umbrella being thrown to the ground as frantic hands shook him.

Too late. He was already asleep.

~*~

10 JANUARY 1997

Waking up… Was agony.

It didn’t make sense, the heaviness he felt in his limbs, the ringing in his ears, the knife-like pain in his throat. He tried opening his eyes, but they felt swollen, and like someone had glued them shut. He started coughing violently, but found himself choking on something hard; it was as though his throat were being lit on _fire_. In his frenzied state, he wondered if somehow performing oral sex on the drug dealer had ruptured his throat. He tried to lift his hand to check, and found he was tightly restrained to the bed he was laying on. 

Immediately he understood: this was it. This was the gang rape Liam had promised him. He must have fallen asleep whilst concussed — Reading, Brighton, London, all of it had been a dream, and he was really back in his flat in Oxford, and Liam and his friend were going to…

He tried to scream, but couldn’t make more than a few painful gurgles around whatever was choking him. His arms were restrained with tight cuffs. His legs felt weak, but they were free at least. He kicked and thrashed, trying to call for help, call for Victor or Mummy or _Mycroft_ even, if it meant he would not have to submit to another assault.

It was then that he heard the frantic beeping from somewhere near his left ear, and that gave him just enough clarity to pause. There was nothing in his flat, save the microwave, that made that type of noise, and beeps from the microwave would certainly not be that quick or close together, or sound that alarming. He stretched the fingers of his restrained hands as much as he could, to feel what little of his surroundings that were within reach, and felt a coarse knit blanket between them. He inhaled through his nose to the best of his ability, and smelled antiseptic and bandages and cheap soap.

This was not the flat in Oxford. This was a hospital.

He tried opening his eyes again, but his eyelashes caught just before he could pry his eyes apart. He made a pained, animalistic groan to try to attract attention of someone — anyone — who might be nearby. A few seconds later, he heard footsteps approaching at a pace that was just short of a run, and the smell of leather and scotch and parchment wafted in his direction.

‘ _Sherlock,_ ’ Mycroft croaked, sounding as though he had a head cold. Sherlock frowned, eyes still closed, trying to make sense of this, ‘Are you really awake? Wait a moment, I’ll be right back.’

He heard the sharp footfalls retreating slightly, then a tap running, and then he was back. A warm cloth ran gently over Sherlock’s closed eyes several times, then Mycroft murmured, ‘There, brother mine, that should be better.’

Sherlock slowly opened his eyes, his gaze out of focus in the painfully bright light as water dripped into his eyes and down his cheeks. He moaned again to indicate his displeasure, and understanding dawned on his brother’s face, and he blotted Sherlock’s face with the flannel again, then left Sherlock’s side to go flip off the lights. The effect was immediately comforting; in the dim room, Sherlock’s eyes were given a chance to adjust, and it was then that he truly looked at his brother, taking in the dark circles under his eyes, the muss of his hair, the wrinkle of the shirt he had rolled the sleeves up on, the loosened tie hanging limply around his neck. Sherlock raised his eyebrows at seeing his normally meticulously dressed brother looking thus, and Mycroft rolled his eyes and muttered, ‘oh, shut up.’

Sherlock gave a meaningful tug against the restraints at his wrists, and Mycroft hesitated.

‘They’re on for your own safety, Sherlock,’ he explained, not quite looking at him, ‘You’re, ah, on observation. There was quite a lot of… Well, everything, in your system when you were brought in.’

Sherlock tugged again, more insistent this time, and Mycroft sighed.

‘Very well. I will release you, but I swear, Sherlock, if you make any indication you are planning to hurt yourself or others, I will not hesitate to slap these cuffs right back on you,’ he threatened, though the concerned crease of his brow made his words seem incredibly less threatening.

The moment Sherlock was freed, he wasted no time rubbing his wrists to ease the ache. Mycroft watched him quietly, the look on his face a most curious thing. Sherlock had never seen his brother look so lost and helpless, and he found he did not care for it at all. Once his hands were fully back under his control, he gestured frantically to the tube in his throat.

Mycroft frowned, a much more familiar expression, ‘You stopped breathing, Sherlock. You coded three times on the way to hospital. You died en route, Sherlock. You _died_ ,’ he repeated, his voice breaking, and to Sherlock’s astonishment, he brought a long fingered hand up to cover his mouth for a moment before continuing, his voice choked, but steadier, ‘Apparently the drugs you had taken, when mixed to whatever was already in your system created a stimulant/depressant reaction similar to what the doctors referred to as speed ball.’ He said the words with a space in-between, and if Sherlock’s throat hadn’t been in such agony, he would have chuckled.

After a few more increasingly agitated gestures from Sherlock, Mycroft sighed, and pressed the call button for the nurse. When she came bustling in, the look of shock on her face to see Sherlock not only conscious, but angrily arguing in what appeared to be sign language, was truly comical.

~*~

About an hour later, any and all medical professionals that felt any sort of need to poke, prod, examine, speak to, or otherwise annoy Sherlock had done so. The wretched intubation had been removed, and Sherlock was left with a pounding headache, aching throat, and entirely infuriating brother.

‘You really… Can… Leave… You know,’ Sherlock rasped, ‘Don’t… Need… A minder.’

‘I believe your current situation and toxicology screening might indicate otherwise,’ Mycroft replied, though he was clearly struggling to maintain the same level of antagonising frostiness that always coloured their interactions.

‘Fuck… Off… Mike…’ Sherlock whispered, wincing from the effort.

Mycroft’s face softened at the nickname he had only so recently abandoned, and he reached into his inner jacket pocket for a small notebook, and ornate pen.

‘Here. It will be easier for you to write your cutting little remarks, brother mine,’ he said, sliding them to Sherlock from across the wheeled table that sat between them. Sherlock rolled his eyes and wrote ‘ _FUCK OFF_ ’ again, and shoved it back at Mycroft, who merely rolled his eyes right back.

‘ _DO MUM AND FATHER KNOW_?’ Sherlock wrote a moment later. The hurt around his heart had not lessened even a little when he thought of his last conversation with his mother. He closed his eyes and pursed his lips, trying to prevent his emotions from getting the better of him.

Mycroft sighed. ‘They do… Not,’ he said finally, and Sherlock’s eyes sprang open at that, and Mycroft continued, ‘I wanted the opportunity to speak with you first… You do know how Mummy gets when anything involving a _hospital_ comes about.’ He said the word as though it might be something perverse.

Sherlock nodded slowly, being mindful of his aching head. _Thank heavens for small mercies_ , he thought as an uncomfortable wave of gratitude washed over him. Clearly the near brush with death had unstoppered some wretched urges inside of him.

‘I don’t suppose you’ll deign to explain what exactly happened?’ Mycroft asked after several more moments of silence.

‘ _DIDN’T REALISE IT WAS HEROIN_ ,’ Sherlock wrote, and when Mycroft snapped, ‘you know what I mean,’ Sherlock wrote ‘ _MUM SAID YOU ALREADY KNOW_.’

‘About you and Mr Harrington?’ Mycroft asked in disbelief, and Sherlock nodded. Mycroft closed his eyes, rubbed his temples, then sighed, ‘Truly, Sherlock? This was all over… Your _relationship_?’ he asked, saying ‘relationship’ the same way he had said ‘hospital’.

‘ _WHAT DID LIAM SAY_?’ Sherlock wrote, anxiety clawing its way through his guts.

Mycroft sighed again, ‘He said that he had made the decision to end things due to your choice to be unfaithful, and that he couldn’t stand to be made a fool of, after everything he had invested in your relationship. He also thanked me for helping with the flat, and asked me to pass those sentiments along to Mummy and Father. All in all, it was very big of him to make that call. Mummy certainly appreciated it.’ Mycroft gave Sherlock a sidelong glance, and said quietly, ‘I’ve been aware of the nature of your relationship for quite some time now, Sherlock, and I have to say… I do find myself disappointed with your conduct. I had so hoped that you might make things easy on yourself, and continue to build a future with Mr Harrington. To throw that all away for a tryst with an art student? It’s incomprehensible, brother mine.’

Sherlock felt as though Mycroft had just doused him with ice water. He was saying he _knew_? He had _known_ , about the strangers being brought home to fuck Sherlock, the drugs, the guilt trips? And furthermore — he knew about _Victor_? Sherlock didn’t know what shocked him more: that Mycroft had known that Liam convinced Sherlock to fuck his friends, or that he had somehow found out who Victor was when not even Liam knew that.

‘ _YOU KNEW_?’ he wrote, shame colouring his cheeks. He could not even look at his brother.

‘Of course I knew,’ Mycroft replied, gentler this time, ‘Sherlock, it’s _me_ ; I have contacts at the university.’

Sherlock’s shame at this new piece of information caused his stomach to contract sickeningly, and he swallowed hard.

‘Speaking of university,’ Mycroft continued, after a time, ‘Term starts in a week. I have spoken to your professors, and they are willing to let you complete the first few weeks of course work from home due to your reputation of being a high achiever, but Sherlock, that grace will not last indefinitely. If you truly are planning to end things with Mr Harrington, we need to set about finding you new accommodations as soon as possible, so you can return to your studies, and graduate with your fellows this spring.’

The idea… Of returning to Oxford… And having to risk seeing Liam — and Victor… Made Sherlock…

He frantically reached for the basin that was set next to his bed, and vomited spectacularly into it. There wasn’t much in his stomach, only a bit of water, so he was very quickly reduced to painful dry heaving, tears streaming down his face from the effort. Mycroft had initially jumped back in alarm, but then he reached over, and laid a hand on Sherlock’s back, rubbing small circles the way he used to when Sherlock had been a small child with a stomach bug.

‘Remember when you used to chastise the vomit to leave your stomach?’ Mycroft asked quietly, ‘ _Get out of my stomach, you nasty sick_ , you used to say. No one could convince you that was at all irrational or pointless.’

Sherlock remembered. He also remembered it had been Mycroft who had taught him that mantra, when he’d realised that if Sherlock had a force to blame for his misery, it would take his attention away from focusing on the painfulness of it.

‘ _I CAN’T GO BACK_ ’, Sherlock scribbled vehemently in the notebook, once the tremors had subsided, and Mycroft had gingerly removed the basin from his trembling hands.

‘Sherlock, you are a few short months from completing your degree,’ Mycroft argued with a sigh, ‘Breaking your stride now would be more ill-advised.’

Sherlock looked at his brother, tears filling his eyes, despite his great effort to stop them. He angry wiped them away as inconspicuously as he could manage before writing ‘ _MIKE, PLEASE_.’ Mycroft watched him carefully for several long moments, and when Sherlock could stand it no longer, he took the pen, and adamantly underlined the word ‘please’ several times.

‘If I were to… Advocate for this,’ Mycroft said finally, his tone brittle and careful, ‘It would not be so you could go swanning off with the art student, and end up overdosing in a gutter again, do you understand? You would have to give me your word that once the doctors here deem you well enough to go, you will attend an inpatient rehabilitation centre of my choosing, and that you will stay there until you successfully complete the program, then you will return home and finish your degree.’ He straightened his shoulders as he said this, as though he were expecting a fight, but Sherlock merely closed his eyes for a brief moment, swallowed hard, then wrote ‘ _FINE_ ’ so aggressively that the paper tore.

With that, he snapped the notebook closed, shoved it back at Mycroft, and rolled over to his side, refusing to acknowledge anyone or anything else for the rest of the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Try not to hate Mycroft too much. The conversation he thinks he is having, and the conversation Sherlock thinks they are having are two entirely different things. For Mycroft, he thinks Sherlock is embarrassed for his affair with Victor, and that is what he is referring to when he says 'of course he knows; he has contacts at Oxford.' Sherlock (obviously) thinks Mycroft is saying he knew that Liam was essentially pimping him out to his friends. This one instance of miscommunication sets the tone for their entire relationship until Sherlock's suicide attempt that takes place in Dubious. 
> 
> I am currently plotting a Holmes brothers centric fic, temporarily labelled 'Just For, AKA the BAMF Mycroft one' on my hard drive, so hopefully some day it comes to fruition, and this can all be explained in more detail.


	5. Part V -- 26 January-08 February 1997

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No warnings for this chapter, for once! A bit of fluff and filler that takes Sherlock from leaving hospital to boarding the plane for Florida. Things do get a bit darker once he gets to rehab, though.
> 
> Current thought: I might need some beta help in the near future going back and editing Dubious for continuity... I started writing Dubious in 2013, and it literally took me 6 years to finish, so it feels very choppy to me, and the facts definitely don't all line up now that I've given Sherlock a 100K word backstory. If this is something anyone would be interested in, PLEASE let me know!
> 
> Thanks again to everyone who's shown some interest in my stuff. I do really appreciate it. And do please feel free to leave some more ;)
> 
> Xx lilylashes

26 JANUARY 1997

It was more than two weeks before Sherlock was deemed well enough to leave hospital, and even then, he was only released to the express care of his older brother. Apparently due the high level of illicit substances found in his system, as well as his physical state when he had been admitted, he was deemed not only at risk for relapse, but for suicide as well. He had had to argue vehemently that he did not need to remain restrained to the bed (truthfully, he knew he would not be able to bear it), and it was only Mycroft interceding on his behalf that got the imbecilic doctors to agree to leave them off.

The wounds on his back had all but healed, leaving pale pink new skin formed in the wake of the damage. His nose had healed as well, though it did list slightly to the left more than it had before. The doctors had assumed that the damage had occurred whilst he was doing all sorts of unsavoury activities to obtain the drugs, and he did not correct them.

He had stoutly declined to answer any and all questions about sexual assault, so who knows what conclusions they drew from that. Sherlock refused to contemplate it.

He had been appointed a therapist for the duration of his stay, and the woman was as moronic as she was dull. She clearly fancied herself a progressive intellectual, and tried to make every insipid word that left her mouth sound like a profound declaration, as though she were hoping to be quoted in someone’s memoir. She had forced him to write apology letters to ‘those he felt he had wronged’ as part of his ‘journey of self-discovery and recovery’, and told him he would ‘only be able to love himself once he forgave himself’ and all sorts of other bullshit. He scribbled letters to his parents, and Mycroft, and his chemistry professor whilst sitting in her obnoxiously serene office (complete with pastel walls and potted plants), but the letter to Victor he wrote once he was alone back in his own room. He burned the other letters in the toilet whilst he was supposed to be washing, but the letter to Victor he slipped into the lining of the suitcase Mycroft had procured for him. He didn’t know why.

Finally the end of January rolled around, and he was blessedly freed from his forced therapy internment, and released to the care of Mycroft’s London flat for the next week until he was able to depart for the rehabilitation centre… In bloody _Florida_ , of all places. Mycroft awkwardly pointed out that Sherlock would need some clothing meant for warmer weather, which resulted in the two Holmes boys standing uncomfortably in a clothing shop whilst Mycroft’s assistant buzzed around and cheerfully tossed shirts and shorts and lightweight jackets into an ever-growing pile. Mycroft mutely paid for everything with his credit card, and Sherlock accepted the many shopping bags with a nod of gratitude.

True to his word, Mycroft had not told Mummy about Sherlock’s overdose, nor did he tell her about the plans for Sherlock to attend rehab in Florida. Instead, he told their parents that he and Sherlock had worked out a plan for a work-study program for his last semester, so he was deferring graduation, and would return to complete his degree the following August. When Sherlock thought too hard about all the strings Mycroft had pulled on his behalf, he got an uncomfortable lump in his throat, so he actively chose to ignore it.

~*~

08 FEBRUARY 1997

Finally, it was the night before that Sherlock was due to depart for Florida, and one of the tensest dinners of Sherlock’s life that didn’t involve his parents sat at either end of a grand table. Mycroft had thoroughly vetted the rehab centre that was expecting Sherlock, and purchased him a first-class trans-Atlantic plane ticket. He was currently fretting that he wouldn’t be the one to personally deliver Sherlock to check-in, and Sherlock had about his his limit.

‘For god’s sake, Mike, I’m not going to go fuck off to the nearest drugs den the moment I hit the tarmac,’ he finally exploded, ‘I _want_ to get better, you pompous prig! I don’t want to continue to be this… This… Whatever I am.’

Mycroft was silent for so long that Sherlock finally looked up, and say his brother studying him like a specimen he had never seen before.

‘I… Of course,’ he said finally, ‘Apologies, brother mine, I did not mean to imply… _Of course_ you are invested in your recovery more than anyone.’

Sherlock softened at this, and conceded, ‘I understand. But, believe it or not, Mike, I’m not exactly thrilled with how this year has started either.’

‘I know, Sherlock,’ Mycroft said quietly, and in that moment, Sherlock couldn’t find a single sarcastic reply, so instead the brothers just finished their dinner in silence.

~*~

The plane trip was tedious, claustrophobic, and took far longer that Sherlock was anticipating. Though Mycroft had been generous to get him a seat in the first-class cabin, the larger seat and extra leg room did not also come with the isolation Sherlock so desperately craved after being constantly surrounded by medical staff, household staff, or his overbearing brother for the last month.

It was his misfortune that the other seat in his row was occupied by a middle aged American woman with long red fingernails, an ostentatiously garish blouse, and bedazzled reading glasses on a gold chain, that sat atop her very large, orange hair.

‘Oh, honey, you’re flying all this way, all by yourself?!’ she exclaimed in her nasal, flat accent when she first saw Sherlock approach. He nodded mutely, and slid past her to his seat. Thankfully, Mycroft had seen to it that he was sat next to the window, and he pointedly stared out it during take-off, but after a few minutes in the air, she started speaking again.

‘So, what’s the purpose of your trip, business or pleasure?’ she asked cheerfully, and laughed at her own joke.

‘Well, it’s not business,’ Sherlock replied flatly. Honestly, this should have been evident by the very fact that he had on jeans, and trainers, and Victor’s hoodie that he had stoutly refused to leave behind, despite Mycroft’s mortification at the idea his brother would be seen _in public_ wearing an item of clothing made from the same material they made geriatric blankets and children’s pyjamas.

‘Oh, pleasure then!’ she exclaimed, not deterred in the slightest, ‘Oh, that’s just great. Orlando is just wonderful this time of year, not too hot, not too many tourists — no offence, of course, sweetheart — and _Disney World_ , oh my goodness! They are celebrating their 25 year anniversary still! They’ve changed Cinderella’s _whole castle_ into a giant pink birthday cake, just wait ’til you see it!’

The woman was babbling nonsense, and it was making Sherlock’s head hurt, but he still had almost nine hours left stuck on the flight, so he merely have her a tight lipped smile and nodded. He pulled the thickest book from his carry-on bag, which happened to be the copy of _The Lord of the Rings_ that Victor had given him all those months ago. It was the perfect distraction.

~*~

A few hours later, Sherlock emerged from Middle Earth, missing Victor terribly, and not at all tempted by the chilled plate with some sort of pretentious-looking salad proffered by the smiling flight attendant along with a can of Coca-Cola. He desperately wanted a different kind of coke, and it was making him itchy and irritable.

‘That must be a good book, you’ve barely made a peep since we left England,’ his seat mate remarked, as she dug into her own salad, her fork screeching against the plate, and cracked open her root beer. He wrinkled his nose in disgust; he had tried root beer exactly once, and couldn’t get over the feeling that he was drinking fizzy mouthwash.

‘Yes,’ he said simply, and took a reluctant bite of salad, hoping to deter any further conversation.

No such luck, apparently the few hours respite from conversation had refuelled her need to chatter. She peered over at the title, and nodded in recognition. ‘My brother always loved those books,’ she said a little wistfully, and even went so far as to reach over and stroke the cover of the book from where Sherlock had sat it on his pull-down tray. He stared, and she pulled her hand back and sighed, ‘He was always getting lost in these silly make-believe worlds. Outer-space, and wizards, and pirates, that kind of thing. Never stopped loving the things we used to enjoy when we were kids. Kind of like that little boy who never grew up, and went to Never Neverland. Forgot his name… Came from London, though.’

‘Peter Pan,’ Sherlock supplied automatically, then felt a wave of hurt so strong it made him take a sharp intake of breath, as he remembered discussing ‘that faerie book’ with Victor, and how it had been Mrs Trevor’s favourite story, and had inspired her to name her youngest son Jonathan Michael. Jonathan probably hated him now too, and that was painful in itself, because he had become surprisingly fond of spending time talking to, and playing violin with Victor’s younger brother.

His heartache must have shown on his face, because his travel mate said softly, ‘Yes, that’s it,’ then was quiet for a moment before sighing and continuing, a little sadly, ‘My brother died almost a month ago. He was cremated just after the New Year, and I… I came to England to scatter his ashes. It’s what he wanted; to have his final resting place be where all his heroes were from… It’s a bit morbid, I know, carting about human remains, but our parents are gone and he never married, so there’s no one else who could have done it. Sorry if you’re squeamish.’

‘I’m not,’ Sherlock assured her quickly. He thought for a moment, then took a deep breath and said, ‘I… I was studying chemistry and biology at university before… Before this. My… My friend gifted me with a skull this past Christmas. Human remains don’t bother me.’

‘A _skull_!’ the woman exclaimed, looking delighted, ‘Oh, how spooky! It must have been a special friend to like you enough to get one for you.’

Again, a wave of pain punched Sherlock in the gut, and all he could manage to say was ‘Yeah. Yeah, he did,’ in a voice that was so small he barely recognised it as his own.

The woman, now finished with her salad, pushed her plate aside as she looked over at him again, and said quietly, ‘Love hurts sometimes, doesn’t it, honey?’

‘It does,’ Sherlock said before he could stop himself, and a lump formed in his throat that he could not control, ‘It really fucking does.’ A tear escaped from the corner of his eye, and he angrily wiped it away with his sleeve, ‘Sorry for the language,’ he added as an afterthought.

‘Doesn’t bother me,’ the woman said with a shrug, ‘Love does fucking hurt. Sometimes you just need to say it like it is.’ Sherlock let out a small laugh, and she smiled. ‘Is that what this not-work trip is about, then? Getting over a broken heart?’

‘Something like that, I guess,’ Sherlock said awkwardly, ‘Not Disney World, anyway.’

The flight attendant returned then, collecting the empty (or in Sherlock’s case, still full) salad plates, saving Sherlock from having to elaborate. A few minutes later, the next course arrived: what looked like a chicken breast, drizzled with some sort of sauce, and veg cut into delicate swirls. Sherlock accepted it glumly, and poked at his food a bit with his fork before shoving it to the side, and picking his book back up.

‘You should eat up,’ the woman suggested, as she began cutting her chicken up, ‘For what they charge for these seats, you ought to get your money’s worth.’

‘My brother paid,’ Sherlock said, then cringed, wondering if that was an insensitive remark to make considering the circumstances, but the woman only laughed.

‘So did mine, technically,’ she joked between bites of chicken, ‘This whole trip is coming out of his estate, so I figured… Might as well treat myself. It’s been a long road to get to this point.’

‘How… How did your brother die?’ Sherlock asked curiously, then realising how intrusive that question could be, he quickly added, ‘If you don’t mind me asking, I mean.’

‘HIV,’ the woman answered without batting an eye, ‘Between free love, and the war on drugs… It was only a matter of time. It’s still hard, though, saying goodbye and all that.’

‘Yeah,’ Sherlock said awkwardly, ‘I suppose it’s never easy.’

‘That’s how you know they mattered, though,’ the woman sighed, put her fork down, and leaned back in her seat, closing her eyes, ‘The more they mattered, the harder the goodbye.’ A few moments later, she was snoring softly.

Sherlock picked his book back up, ready to be distracted to a story of daring adventure, unwavering bravery, and steadfast friendship, and not at all willing to think about the reason goodbye had been so very, very hard in the first place.


	6. Part VI -- February-April 1997

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this update finds you all well. We have currently been on quarantine in my city for the last two weeks. It's been an experience, that's for sure.
> 
> Trigger warnings for this chapter: rehab, bullying that results in suicide, coerced drug possession (no relapse yet). I will post a summary at the end in case these might be sensitive topics for anyone.
> 
> Again, I hope everyone is doing as well as possible, all things considered. Hold each other high, try to find solace in small acts of kindness, and just know that we will get through this together. Certainly easier said than done, but we are doing the best with what we have.
> 
> Thank you to anyone who has left feedback on any of my stuff since my last update; would love to see some more. Love you all.
> 
> Xx lilylashes

FEBRUARY 1997

Rehab was… Tedious.

The monotony of it was enough to make Sherlock seriously considering using again, if only to escape the stifling boredom, but he hadn’t lied to Mycroft when he said he did _want_ to get better, so he refrained — for now.

The centre was infuriatingly neutral, its pastel coloured walls trying to radiate serenity, but instead just gave it a prison-like appearance. Sherlock’s tiny room was painted in a shade of blue so light it was nearly white, and was as nondescript as they came — he’d spent hours his first day searching for clues about its past residents, but all he found was an inconspicuous spot behind the dresser where someone had etched the words ‘FUCK THIS PLACE’ into the chipped paint with what appeared to be nail clippers. They weren’t allowed anything sharper _just in case_ , so the letters were jagged and uneven, but it made Sherlock smile anyway.

The worst bit was having to socialise with the other residents. It was the first time Sherlock had been among so many Americans, and he found the general _loudness_ of their presence a bit jarring. The accents no longer had much of an effect on him, but it was the way they spoke to each other — and him — that made him feel as though he were constantly on the defensive. He’d been asked startling personal questions, and learned far more about his cohabitants than he’d ever wished to know. They touched each other or leaned against each other constantly. Sherlock had been that way with Victor, surely, but never with his peers at school or even his family. The lack of social and physical boundaries made him feel even more out of place than when some of the younger girls would follow him around and ask him to say words like ‘squirrel’ and ‘better’, then giggle at his enunciation.

It was terribly lonely. The weeks dragged on painfully slowly, but the passing days did nothing to dull the ache in Sherlock’s chest when he thought about everything he was missing back home. He wondered if Victor still thought about him. He would undoubtedly be back at Oxford by now, mere months away from finishing his degree.

However, thoughts of Oxford also brought about thoughts of Liam, and that was in no way a road Sherlock was yet ready or willing to go down, so he tamped down on the feelings of homesickness, and focussed on getting through one day at a time.

~*~

MARCH 1997 

The monotony was broken one day, mid-March by another new arrival, even more exotic to Sherlock’s fellow residents than he was.

Another boy from the UK called Jamie appeared, claiming to have been sent by his Irish gran when she’d found out from her neighbour he’d been selling drugs out of her back room for ages without her knowing. He was a few years older than Sherlock, and seemed greatly unaffected by his surroundings. Jamie admitted with an eye-roll that he was only there to appease the ‘batty old bitch’ so he didn’t get written out of the inheritance. ‘After all,’ he said, the words rolling off his tongue with a soft Irish lilt that Sherlock found oddly comforting, ‘The old cunt won’t live forever. I imagine by the time I return to Ireland she’ll be halfway in the grave, so really it’s only a matter of time. Might as well keep myself in her good books; the bitch is loaded.’

Sherlock just nodded, but he was thinking of his dear, sweet Grand-Mere, and could never image speaking so harshly about her. He suddenly missed her fiercely.

Jamie shrugged, ‘Guess this is as good a place as any to waste my time. At least-’

He was interrupted by the appearance of Jenny, one of the girls who liked to hover around Sherlock for the thrill of hearing him speak.

‘Hi,’ she said brightly, ‘So Ashley and Kevin over there said you’re from Ireland, and they wanted to know if you'd come over and say something Irish, cos, you know, it’s almost St Paddy’s Day and all? Brittany wants to decorate the common room with, like, leprechauns and rainbows, and that kind of stuff, so maybe you could, you know, help her or whatever, to make sure it’s, like, authentic.’

Jamie stared at her, his head cocked to the side, but his dark eyes narrowed in a way Sherlock could only classify as dangerously.

‘What the fuck are you on about, you stupid bitch?’ he asked so softly that had it not been for his profane words, Sherlock would have thought he was speaking to a friend, ‘Do you think I give a shit about you and your pathetic friends hosting a party for a pointless fucking holiday? You could kill yourself in front of me, and I wouldn’t be bothered… In fact, that might make one of you more interesting at least. Feel free to fuck off any time now.’

Jenny burst into tears, but at least she retreated — a feat Sherlock had never accomplished. He usually just parroted whatever inane word of phrase she requested of him, then pretended to read book until she left him alone. Though he thought the exchange had been unnecessarily mean, he couldn’t help but feel awed by Jamie’s unapologetic approach to demanding solitude.

‘That was brilliant,’ he said ruefully, feeling only the slightest bit of guilt as he watched Jenny return to her friends, still wiping away tears, ‘I can never get them to leave me alone. They just like to hear my accent.’

‘They’re the ones with the accent,’ Jamie replied carelessly, leaning his head back and examining the water damaged ceiling, ‘Sound like bloody cowboys, don’t they? They’re all so infuriatingly _dull_ … Wish one of them would do something as interesting as die, just so we’d have a bit of excitement around here. Think they could be persuaded?’ He let out a mad peal of laughter, and glanced imploringly at Sherlock.

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably. Though he was certainly not fond of Jenny and her mindless group of friends, they’d never irritated Sherlock to the point of wishing them harm. However, it was so refreshingly comforting to have another human being to actually talk to, connect with, that he wasn’t willing to jeopardise that by defending someone he could barely tolerate, so he merely nodded noncommittally, and tried not to see as Jenny sat back down on the sofa across the common room, and buried her face in her hands.

~*~

Two days later, Jenny _did_ commit suicide. Sherlock watched out the window on the door to his room as a trolley was wheeled by, her small body concealed by an nondescript white sheet. 

He caught Jamie’s eye from his own door across the hall, and couldn’t help but shudder when he saw the faintest hint of a smile on other boy’s pale face.

~*~

APRIL 1997

Rehab after Jamie’s arrival was… Nearly bearable. 

Even though Sherlock still had the lingering feeling of unease after Jenny’s death, he stubbornly shoved those thoughts aside, because Jamie’s presence kept the aching loneliness at bay. It was almost… Nice to have someone to sit with at meal time, and in the common room, and hanging around Jamie had the added bonus that his presence seemed to terrify Jenny’s old friends, so there were no more awkward flirtations and requests to repeat words.

April was slipping by swimmingly until one evening after visitors’ day, when a man Sherlock had never seen before had spent the afternoon strolling the grounds with Jamie. Having had no visitors himself, since Mycroft was off being master of his own universe, and his parents thought he was on some sort of internship, Sherlock had spent the day playing the violin that Mycroft had sent him in the post. It was nowhere near as satisfying as playing his Strad, but the gesture was appreciated nonetheless. Of course, feeling the music course through him reminded him of Victor, but with every passing day, the agony his absence left was beginning to lessen, much like the way the edges of a paper thrust into a fire would curl in on itself before it was no more.

Jamie returned from his visit looking triumphant, even giddy, as he stopped in the doorway of Sherlock’s room. Sherlock eyed him suspiciously, but said nothing, merely lowering his violin, and placing it carefully back in its case.

‘Now don’t be looking at me like you think I pissed in your porridge,’ Jamie said with a gleeful giggle at his own joke, ‘I have a grand treat for you, if you would feel so inclined to step into my room once you’re done fussing with that fiddle.’

‘ _Violin_ ,’ Sherlock corrected automatically, but he smiled when Jamie just happily rolled his eyes, and ducked out of the room.

A few moments later, Sherlock had put his instrument and music away, and crossed the hall to enter Jamie’s room. He knocked lightly on the doorframe before taking a step inside. Jamie was kneeling with his back to Sherlock as he was on his knees, rummaging in the tiny closet.

‘You can sit on the bed if you want,’ Jamie offered, ‘Just give us a moment.’

Sherlock complied, and glanced around Jamie’s room in mild surprise. He’d only been there once before, whilst waiting for Jamie to get dressed for breakfast shortly after he’d arrived, and was honestly surprised to see that the room was still as blank as it had been nearly a month ago. Sherlock had received a few packages from Mycroft that contained letters, a handful of photos, a small collection of books and periodicals, even a blanket from his childhood bedroom, which he’d hidden in a drawer of his dresser in embarrassment. Though still very clearly not a home, the room had at least shown a bit of Sherlock’s personality. Jamie’s walls were still a light green/almost white colour, and completely unadorned.

‘Okay, that’s better,’ Jamie said finally, emerging from the closet with an excited twinkle in his eye, ‘So. Have _you_ been a very good boy this afternoon? Because Father Christmas came early, and I don’t mind telling you it’s because I was a bit… Naughty.’ He giggled again, looking as though he was, in fact, a small child on Christmas morning.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, but also smiled a bit at Jamie’s obvious elation, ‘What on earth are you on about?’

Jamie rubbed his hands together, ‘Well, you know my visitor today? We told the admins he was my Uncle Frank, but he’s more of an… Associate. I finally had my people back home get in touch with a network out this way, and Frank there wanted to come introduce himself, and bring us a little… Treat.’ He sighed happily, and reached into his pocket, pulling out a fistful of small baggies filled with white powder. He grinned, and offered one to Sherlock, ‘Here, this one’s on me. Consider it my thanks for making this damned place so tolerable.’

‘I…’ Sherlock started, but then his mouth went dry, and it was as though his world had narrowed to just the line of vision between him and the baggie extended in Jamie’s hand.

‘It helps with the nightmares,’ Jamie said offhandedly, ‘I barely even notice them any more.’

‘You… You get nightmares too?’ Sherlock asked, unable to stop himself.

‘Oh, yeah,’ Jamie replied, still nonplussed. He turned and lifted the back of his shirt slightly, revealing the war zone of his back, covered with scars that were clearly from cigarettes and the buckle-end of belts, ‘My whole life before my Dad died was one giant nightmare. But, like I said… There are things that make you stop noticing. You seem to have quite the landscape of nightmares underneath your own shirt. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.’

Sherlock stared at his hands, still folded tightly in his lap, his knuckles shining white with the effort of not snatching the bag from Jamie’s open palm, ‘I’m in recovery,’ he said finally, swallowing hard, and looking away.

‘Aren’t we all?’ Jamie asked nonchalantly, laying back on the bed, and gazing up lazily at Sherlock, ‘You say that like you’re an addict, but you’re nothing like those junkies out there. You’re too clever to be consumed by the drugs; you’re like me, a _user —_ we can start and stop as needed. You said yourself: coming here wasn’t your idea, it was your brother’s, so he didn’t make you go back to that school. And I’m only here to keep my Gran from writing me out of her will. We’re the same, you and I. That’s why we’re friends… We understand each other.’

And there was that curious word again — _friend_. The last person to call Sherlock his friend had been Victor, and again, Sherlock refused to go there. He chose instead to contemplate Jamie for a moment, his mind whirring like mad as it tried to make sense of his current predicament. He was pretty sure he liked Jamie, but to call him a _friend_? Having had only Victor to compare to, the differences in relationships were like apples and onions. Jamie was a decent enough companion, but Victor was…

Apparently Sherlock’s musings went on a moment too long, because Jamie sat up abruptly and studied him, the mirth suddenly disappearing from his face with a dangerous cock of his head, and narrowing of his eyes. That same faint smile Sherlock had seen through the window the day Jenny died played at his lips, and his voice became even softer when he spoke next.

‘Of course… It is always possible I was mistaken. My apologies,’ he said silkily, and began to lower his hand.

Sherlock’s hand shot out and grabbed Jamie’s wrist, almost of its own volition. ‘ _No_ ,’ he all but barked, gripping Jamie’s wrist much tighter than he meant to, ‘No, I… Thank you. Yes, I… I would like it. Please. Thank you. You’re… You’re a good friend,’ he said, the words spilling from his mouth all out of order and wrong, but it didn’t seem to matter, because Jamie blinked, and the predatory expression left his face, and was immediately replaced with his mad grin.

‘That’s what I thought!’ he exclaimed happily, and pressed the baggie into Sherlock’s palm, ‘You’re going to love it; this is some high quality shit. Not cut with baby formula or cornstarch or any of that muck, so you’d do well to make it last. Don’t want to get caught overdosing in the loo like a junkie, now do you?’

Sherlock shook his head, and slipped the baggie into the pocket of his jeans. Jamie laid back down on the bed, bring one arm up to place his hand under his head, and using the other to pull Sherlock down next to him. Sherlock let himself be pulled back without protest, and moments later he was surprised to find Jamie’s free hand carding through his hair. It truly wasn’t that bad of a feeling.

‘Yeah,’ Jamie said after a few moments of silence, ‘Just the same we are, no doubt about it, Sherlock. Two of a kind.’

Sherlock didn’t reply, just let himself take comfort in the feeling of Jamie playing with his hair, his warm body on the bed next to him, the echo of being called his friend still ringing in his ears, and the bag of cocaine burning a hole in Sherlock’s pocket.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock arrives at the rehab, and is terribly lonely and isolate, being away from everything and everyone he knows, until an Irish lad named Jamie appears, who has been sent there by his rich Irish gran after she catches him selling drugs. Jamie is a bit more rough around the edges than Sherlock, and a lot less indulgent of the other residents than he is, too. Another patient aggravates her, and Jamie cruelly, offhandedly suggests she kill herself. Two days later, she does. The following month, Jamie gets a visitor from someone who gives him a stash of drugs, which he offers, and then pressures, Sherlock to share.


	7. Part VII -- May 1997

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a hot minute since the last update, but thank you SO much to everyone who has left kudos and comments on this and any other stories... I appreciate it so much. Quarantine has been a mixed bag of emotions, but I will definitively say that any and all alerts I have received from AO3 from your lovely feedback has done wonders for my overall wellbeing and mental health -- from the bottom of my heart, THANK YOU.
> 
> I hate to say anything, because I always inevitably prove myself wrong, BUT -- I do believe that we are nearing the end. The plan is for one or two more chapters from 1997, then massive time jumps from when Sherlock leaves Florida, to when he returns to England, meets Lestrade, finds the Work, moves into 221B, meets John, etc. It should end just where Dubious begins, but maybe don't quote me on that, because I am pants at sticking to a plan.
> 
> In the meantime, stay healthy, stay safe, and 'oodles of love and big squishy cuddles' to each and every one of you.
> 
> xx lilylashes
> 
> (See end of chapter notes for chapter summary and warnings.)

MAY 1997

It was several more weeks before Sherlock gave any more thought to what he had stashed in one of the inner pockets of his violin case. He had pointedly not taken his violin out again, for fear that the temptation of opening the baggie of cocaine might prove to be too great. Of course, this also meant that he had cut himself off from playing the violin altogether, which had become something of a comfort to him in his isolation.

It was after a particularly gruelling therapy session, in which Sherlock had made the mistake of mentioning Liam that left him feeling off-kilter, and desperate for a distraction. His appointed therapist didn’t know the full extent of his relationship with Liam — Sherlock had only conceded to reveal that the relationship had ended due to his affair with Victor, and pointedly refused to bring up all that ‘sex stuff’ that had taken place between him, Liam, and Liam’s friends and associates. It was something that still made humiliation and discomfort prickle painfully in his stomach, and seemed irrelevant to his recovery. The fact that Mycroft knew was bad enough; he felt no need to divulge his shame to a complete stranger.

Unfortunately, on that particular afternoon, Sherlock had unintentionally referenced being in bed with one of Liam’s friends, and he _hated_ himself for it. The therapist’s eyebrows had shot up, and she had asked him what Liam had felt about Sherlock’s ‘serial infidelity’ and if that had been a contributing factor in Liam’s choice to end the relationship. It wasn’t fucking fair — he had only fucked Liam’s associates at Liam’s own request. It wasn’t something he had ever sought — or even necessarily enjoyed — but the fact remained that it was still something he had gotten off on during, so the whole ordeal made his chest feel heavy and like something inside was desperately beating against the sides of his skull. Deep down, he considered the idea that his constant need for validation is what had driven him to acquiesce to those acts, that the attention he had garnered during those acts had somehow his subconscious’ end goal. That idea made his head throb, and set him off into hours of dark, confused contemplation over how he could be such an insecure slag, and total piece of shit, still managing to reach orgasm, whilst hating every moment. Maybe it meant that he hadn’t hated it as much as he’d let himself believe.

Honestly, his original intention had been to take his frustrations out on his violin, when suddenly he remembered his contraband when he’d popped open the compartment for the rosin, and instead found himself face to face with the cocaine instead. Feeling so very wretched, and unworthy of even an ounce of grace, he pulled the baggie from its hiding place, and fingered it thoughtfully. He knew throwing away nearly four months of recovery would be a terrible decision of epic proportions, but that siren’s call of oblivion was so very, very tempting.

It was then that Jamie’s words came back to him — _you’re not a_ _junkie_ _like those other people, you’re like me: a_ _user_ _. We can start and stop any time we’d like_ — and wasn’t that also true? His usage had been intermittent over the holidays, and it had only been once everything with Liam and Victor and Oxford and his family had gone to shit that he’d begun using more than he knew was reasonable. And hadn’t it only been as a substitute for painkillers after he’d been brutally beaten and fucked, and refused to go to hospital? And furthermore, hadn’t it only been the unknown substance he’d acquired from the drug dealer in London that had caused his overdose? Surely if it had just been regular cocaine, without the traces of heroin, wouldn’t it have just added to his standard high, and not had a speedball effect? Briefly he let himself wonder if he would have been able to blow the drug dealer for the cocaine he’d originally offered, but that brought him back to the dark contemplation of how and when he’d become such a slut in the first place.

Before he could stop himself, he found he had opened the bag, and was dipping a finger inside, feeling the fine powder on his fingers, and he brought his fingertip to his mouth, licking off the residue. It wasn’t enough for a proper high, but moments later he felt the faintest flicker of the familiar singing in his veins, and the next thing he knew, he was shaking just a small bit out on his bedside table.

He remembered Jamie saying it was ‘high quality shit’, so he emptied it very sparingly, and used his keycard to make a single, small line. He stared at it for a long while, feeling very much as though he were standing on the edge of a knife, but the ache in his head and chest from how very terrible his therapy session had gone proved to be too great, and he ended up snorting the lot.

It was bliss.

It was hateful, hateful bliss.

Simultaneous with the crackle of euphoria bubbling merrily in his veins, came the deep self loathing of being _weak_ and _stupid_ of returning to his vice, and that feeling battled mightily with the desire to let go and just enjoy the high.

In the end, he just laid back on his bed, determinedly refusing to contemplate whether the tears leaking from his eyes was a side effect of the drugs, or his decision to use them.

~

After the first time, there seemed no reason to continue to deprive himself, so every few days, Sherlock found himself returning to his violin case. His stash, tiny to begin with, depleted to nothing within a few short weeks.

That was it, then, he thought, ignoring the disappointment that settled into his chest.

~

A few days later, the familiar feeling of withdrawal began to creep over him. He begged off all his scheduled activities, claiming flu symptoms, and confined himself to his room, curling up on his bed, and refusing to be roused even for meals.

After a few days of this, Jamie popped his head into Sherlock’s room one day after dinner, and threw a bag of crisps and a bottle of water at him.

‘Ya got to eat something, you silly sod,’ he said with a giggle, ‘Or you know Nurse Ratchet will put you on those protein bars you despise.’

Sherlock rolled over and groaned, grasping blindly for the crisps, ‘I hardly feel as though crisps will provide enough calories to prevent malnutrition,’ he scoffed feebly.

‘More than ya been eating though, isn’t it?’ Jamie shot back, and bounded across the room until he was at Sherlock’s bed, and plopped himself down, bouncing a bit on the mattress, ‘Now what’s got your knickers in a twist there, Sherlock?’

‘Sick,’ Sherlock mumbled, still struggling with the bag of crisps, ‘Flu.’

Jamie rolled his eyes, and removed the bag from Sherlock’s fumbling hands, and tore it open with ease. He plucked a crisp from the pack, and popped it in his mouth, ‘Right. Flu,’ he said with a snort, sticking his hand back in the bag.

‘I thought those were for me,’ Sherlock protested weakly, clutching his stomach as another cramp rolled through his gut. Jamie’s eyes twinkled, and he pulled out another crisp, and held it to Sherlock’s lips.

‘Eat then,’ he said indifferently, and after a moment’s hesitation, Sherlock opened his mouth slightly, and let Jamie feed him.

They continued on like this until the entire bag was empty, then Jamie unscrewed the top to the water bottle, and pressed it to Sherlock’s mouth for him to drink. Sherlock drank the entire thing in a few long gulps, then laid back down, feeling the tiniest bit better.

‘Thank you,’ he murmured once he finally felt the smallest bit under control again, ‘The food and water — it helped.’

‘What are friends for,’ Jamie replied, a note of teasing in his voice, and reclined on the bed next to Sherlock, and gathered Sherlock’s aching body against him, ‘Though you and I both know you’re not down with the flu, you goose. Do you think I don’t recognise the signs of withdrawal when I see them? You’re hot as a furnace, and your skin feels like an eel. I reckon you’re about three or four days in, yeah?’

Sherlock considered denying this, but in the end he found he was too tired and weak to be bothered, and instead nodded faintly. ‘This is horrible,’ he admitted quietly, ‘So much worse than last time… Last time I was unconscious for the first few days.’

‘Well, ya know what would help the shakes more than a bag of crisps, right?’ Jamie asked, running his fingers through Sherlock’s sweaty hair. Sherlock shook his head infinitesimally, and Jamie continued, ‘ _Not_ being in withdrawal, of course.’ 

When Sherlock just stared at him, his brow knit in confusion, Jamie reached into the pocket of his jeans, and pulled out another small baggie of cocaine like a magician revealing a rabbit at the end of the show. He dangled it in front of Sherlock’s nose like he was trying to train a puppy to obey commands. ‘I still have loads. ‘Uncle Frank’ came to visit again whilst you were holed up in your room like a fairy tale princess waiting to be rescued, and I am, of course, willing to share with my very best friend.’

Sherlock tried to take in this overload of information into his sluggish brain, struggling to process the pros and cons of indulging in more drugs, and the uncomfortable confusion that came with being called Jamie’s best friend — a title he was certainly not expecting. However, even as he brain whirred madly, trying to make sense of it all, his shaking hand reached for the drugs almost of its own volition. Before he knew what he was doing, he licked his chapped lips, an croaked, ‘Yes. Yes please. Thank you, Jamie.’

However, as quickly as it had appeared, Jamie snatched it back, sitting up abruptly. When Sherlock looked up, startled, Jamie just chuckled, and rose from the bed, for once towering over Sherlock as he looked down at him in a perfect pantomime of pity.

‘Not so fast!’ he cried, a mixture of mirth and mocking in his voice, ‘We haven’t discussed payment!’

‘Payment?’ Sherlock repeated dazedly, ‘What do you me-’

‘First one was free,’ Jamie interrupted smugly, ‘Never said that I was running a charity indefinitely.’

‘I… I don’t have cash,’ Sherlock stuttered, his heart pounding, and the need for the drugs already consuming him, ‘Only what’s in my account. I could get you items from the shop, though, anything you want.’

‘I’m not in this business for TicTacs and playing cards,’ Jamie sneered, ‘Guess you’ll have to make it up to me another way then.’

Sherlock was quiet for a moment, and in that time, he felt every bit the junkie who had gotten to his knees before his overdose back in January, ‘And… And what would you require?’ he asked, his eyes trained on the chipped linoleum of his bedroom floor.

‘I think you know what,’ Jamie said, and sat back down on the bed with a humourless laugh, ‘I read all about you in your file. I think you know _exactly_ what you can do to make it up to me.’

Sherlock didn’t move, didn’t speak. Jamie watched him silently, then leaned down, and pressed a kiss against Sherlock’s frozen lips. After a moment, when he met no resistance, gently guided Sherlock from the bed, and placed one firm hand on his shoulders, forcing him down onto his knees.

Sherlock hesitated only long enough to take a single breath, then forced his shaking hands to the zip of Jamie’s trousers, doing his very best to ignore the tsunami wave of self-hated that welled up in his chest as he did.

~

And so began their new routine. 

Sherlock would indulge in the drugs that Jamie supplied, which were indeed _some good shit_ , and every few weeks when Jamie’s ‘Uncle Frank’ came to visit, they would secret themselves away — to Sherlock’s room, Jamie’s room, hell, even the custodian’s closet once — to complete the cycle of supply and demand. It took Sherlock nearly no time at all to learn what Jamie liked, so he was able to bring him off with something close to ease, and he stoutly refused to allow Jamie to reciprocate — in any form. It was bad enough he found himself falling back on nearly _all_ his old vices… He didn’t need the added distress of trying to figure out if he actually enjoyed his role as a whore.

Jamie seemed largely unaffected by their transition from mates to… Whatever it was they were now. Aside from the new introduction of the odd rough blow job every few weeks, the rest of the time, he was still lighthearted and engaging — even affectionate — with Sherlock, sitting next to him at meals and free time, joking and laughing (usually at the other residents’ expense), and keeping a sort of protective eye over Sherlock’s general wellbeing. He never mentioned what he’d read in Sherlock’s file, aside from when they were engaged in their business activities, and even then, it was more curiosity than malice.

‘So was it always for drugs, then?’ Jamie asked on one such occasion when they were alone in his room, and he had just come hard down Sherlock’s throat. He buttoned his jeans back up, and impatiently pulled Sherlock up onto his bed, and gathered him into his arms, ‘The sex, I mean. Was it just for the high?’

‘No,’ Sherlock replied quietly, allowing himself to lay his head on Jamie’s chest, ‘I only did that once… At the end. The rest of the time, it was for my boyfriend. He wanted… He liked to watch me with other people. Said it… Turned him on, showed him how much I loved him.’

‘I don’t think I’ll ever love anyone _that_ much,’ Jamie said thoughtfully, ‘Though I suppose you’ve come the closest.’

Sherlock didn’t say anything, just let himself lay close to Jamie, and be lulled into a state of quiet relaxation to the sound of Jamie’s heartbeat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock indulges in the drugs he previously procured from Jamie, but after he runs out, he begins to go through withdrawal. Jamie offers to replenish his supply -- but at a price. Sherlock enters into a sexual relationship with Jamie to pay for a steady supply of cocaine. 
> 
> Additional trigger warnings for shitty therapy, partially due to lack of communication.


	8. Part VIII -- June 1997

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh lord, she's back. Two months later.
> 
> So sorry for the extended delay; real life has been killing me lately. 
> 
> As far as this update goes... Uhm... Well... It's awful. Trigger warnings for dubious consent, bordering on non-con. Full summary at the bottom. This is _not_ the happy part of the story, but those who have read Dubious know that it does eventually end up happy. Ish. It'll just take another six or so chapters to get there, but there is a light at the end of the tunnel, I promise.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has left feedback on this and other pics; I do really appreciate it!
> 
> Xx lilylashes

JUNE 1997

A few more weeks passed, and despite himself, Sherlock found he was actually becoming accustomed to — even appreciative of — the new physical side of his relationship with Jamie. The feelings of humiliation and self-loathing quickly dissipated when the drugs soared through his veins, and rocketed his mind to a higher plane of consciousness at which each touch brought with it electric ripples of intrigue, and shockwaves of satisfaction. Though he still refused to let Jamie return the favour, he no longer loathed performing oral sex as ‘payment’. He was _good_ at this, never mind how he acquired and honed those skills, and Jamie was more than willing to return his attention with continuous shows of interest and affection that helped make Sherlock feel not so alone. It was a mutually beneficial — albeit unhealthy — dynamic, but Sherlock was not too bothered by this knowledge.

However, Jamie continued to make startling comments about his growing feelings for Sherlock, though he clearly did not expect any sort of reciprocation, which Sherlock was glad for. The way Jamie said these things always made his stomach clench unpleasantly. His words, though clearly conveying infatuation — even occasionally love — were never delivered with the quiet earnestness and vulnerability that Victor showed when he would murmur in Sherlock’s ear how _fantastic_ and _amazing_ he was. It seemed more like Jamie was trying to catch Sherlock off guard, or keep him in a constant state of confusion over his own emotions.

Things came to a climax — quite literally — one rainy afternoon in early June, in which Sherlock and Jamie had shared both a healthy helping of Jamie’s supply of cocaine, and a particularly enthusiastic round of snogging in Jamie’s room. Sherlock knew that at some point, Jamie would be expecting an orgasm for his trouble, but it still came as a mighty shock when he felt Jamie slip one hand between their bodies, and begin fumbling with Sherlock’s flies.

‘Jamie, I… I don’t… You don’t have to…’ Sherlock gasped between Jamie’s insistent kisses, and he tried to pull back, but he was already half pinned down under Jamie’s body pressing against his on the bed. He turned his face away determinedly, and tried again, ‘I told you, I’ll just… I’m not worried about getting off.’

‘I think we both know that’s a load of rubbish,’ Jamie replied, his tone light, but his expression severe, ‘You’re half hard already, Sherlock. I don’t know why you always put up such a fuss.’ He palmed Sherlock’s cock through his trousers, and smirked when he felt it twitch with interest.

‘I… I don’t _want_ to,’ Sherlock said, trying mightily to ignore the sensation even as his voice shook. He’d never denied Jamie anything, and the last time he’d tried to refuse with Liam… Well, it hadn’t gone well at all.

‘If you really didn’t want to, your prick wouldn’t be responding like this,’ Jamie argued, and suddenly grasped Sherlock through the fabric of his trousers, and began stroking lightly, ‘You don’t have to put on a facade with me Sherlock. I know you, probably even better than you know yourself. Let go for once. Just let me make you feel good. I know it’s been ages since you’ve gotten a leg over… Or rather, let someone get a leg over you,’ he let out one of his mad peals of laughter.

Sherlock froze, momentarily stung. The last time he had technically had sex was back in Oxford, when Liam had taken him without preparation, and he had screamed, and bled, and cried and begged him to stop. He had been ignored.

Jamie continued, taking Sherlock’s silence for interest and arousal, and increased his tempo and pressure until Sherlock _was_ actually gasping, however reluctantly. Jamie brought his lips close to Sherlock’s ear and breathed, ‘I want to fuck you. I want to see you come. Don’t tell me no.’

Sherlock shivered at these words, a sudden fight or flight response eclipsing even the effects of the cocaine. He felt as though he might be ill, and he tried to pull back again, but Jamie’s mouth was on his, and he found himself immobilised in the other boy’s surprisingly strong grip. When Jamie paused to take a breath, and he was finally able to speak, he stuttered, ‘We… We can’t. Someone might — you know — see, or… I just… I don’t even have anything to…’

‘Don’t you worry about anyone seeing,’ Jamie replied smoothly, ‘I took care of anyone who might think of coming in to bother us. And I am more than prepared,’ he said as he finally shifted off Sherlock’s body, and rummaged in his night stand for a moment, before revealing lube and condoms.

‘You brought condoms to rehab?’ Sherlock asked incredulously, unable to stop himself. He took the opportunity of Jamie’s momentary distraction to sit up and straighten his trousers. He scooted back until his back was against against the headboard, trying to look casual about it, ‘You were that certain you were going to find someone to pull?’

‘I thought I might do,’ Jamie replied indifferently, settling back next to Sherlock, and leaning his head on Sherlock’s shoulder, ‘Never thought I’d find someone like you, though. I thought it might be a bit of fun, not that I’d find someone as brilliant and interesting as you. But then again,’ he said, leaning in to kiss Sherlock again, ‘I’d never been in love before.’

Sherlock swallowed hard, ‘And… And you are now?’ he asked awkwardly. He wasn’t sure which answer he was hoping for.

‘I didn’t say that,’ Jamie replied evasively, ‘Then again, I didn’t _not_ say that.’ He giggled again, and looked Sherlock square in the eye, ‘So then, Sherlock,’ he said, suddenly serious, ‘What’ll it be? I’ll tell you what — I’ll give you your next fix for free. Just as a show of good faith. What do you say?’ He eyes bore deep into Sherlock’s, he and wet his lips, blinking a few times before adding a quiet, ‘ _Please_ , Sherlock, for me.’

Sherlock lowered his gaze to the threadbare cover on Jamie’s bed, but then nodded his assent. Jamie whooped joyously, and kissed Sherlock firmly on the mouth.

‘I promise I’ll make it good,’ he murmured against Sherlock’s lips, and pulled back until just their noses touched. His pupils were blown so wide, his eyes seemed even darker than normal, almost black. ‘How do you want it? Front or back?’ he asked in a husky exhale.

‘Doesn’t matter,’ Sherlock replied, the lack of enthusiasm in his words nearly choking him, ‘Whichever you’d like.’

‘Don’t be so nervous, love,’ Jamie instructed, and pulled back to remove his top, gesturing at Sherlock to do the same, ‘I’ll be gentle.’

Sherlock pulled his t-shirt over his head, and placed it slowly on the bed beside him. He turned his head slightly to Jamie, and lowered his hand to the waistband of his jeans, waiting for further instruction. The similarities between this dynamic, and the one that had existed between him and Liam was enough to make his throat constrict painfully, and he tried his best to stay above the tears that he could feel beginning to prick his eyes.

‘ _Yes_ ,’ Jamie breathed, his own eyes alight with excitement and anticipation. He grasped Sherlock’s free hand, and pressed a kiss to it, ‘Don’t cry, you beautiful thing. We can go as slowly as you like. You’re going to love it.’

Ten more minutes, and much more cajoling and kissing from Jamie, and Sherlock was completely nude, and on his hands and knees before Jamie, gripping the spindles of the footboard hard enough that his knuckles shone white. His heart was hammering away in his chest, and for a moment, he thought he might just call the whole thing off, but the idea of denying Jamie after they’d already gotten this far made him even more anxious than the thought of submitting to the sex. He was afraid he wouldn’t be able to stand it if Jamie ignored his refusal.

Jamie was rock hard already, and running his hands up and down Sherlock’s sides, marvelling at the trail of gooseflesh that followed his fingers. ‘God, your _scars_ , Sherlock’, Jamie said, as he let out a quiet moan, and brushed his lips across a particularly nasty one by Sherlock’s right shoulder blade, ‘The things you must have done to get them. _Ngggg_ ,’ he groaned again, tonguing the sensitive skin, ‘The things you must have let him _do_. God, I bet you were beautiful trussed up like that. I wish we had the time and equipment to do it here.’ He reached to the bedside table and grabbed the bottle of lube, opening it with a quiet _snick_ , and moments later, Sherlock felt Jamie’s nimble fingers slipping into him.

After having had no penetration in nearly half a year, the slick press of Jamie’s gentle fingers felt like an invasion, and Sherlock set his jaw and gritted his teeth to keep from crying out. It felt like it took forever before Sherlock was relaxed enough to accept three of Jamie’s fingers, and by then his own cock had responded to the stimulation seemingly of its own volition. Jamie, true to his word, was doing everything within his power to make it good for Sherlock, still laving kisses across his back and neck, and whispering indistinct words against his skin.

‘Ready, love?’ Jamie asked finally, once he and Sherlock were both breathing heavily, their bodies covered with a sheen of sweat.

‘Yes,’ Sherlock answered, swallowing hard, ‘Yes, I’m ready.’

Though Sherlock had become intimately familiar with Jamie’s cock over the past few months, and logically he knew it was only slightly above average sized, it felt enormous as Jamie began to push inside him. He let go of the footboard, and braced himself on his elbows, pressing his forehead into the mattress, and lacing his fingers together behind his head, as he tried to relax. He honestly felt ridiculous — he was as tense as a blushing virgin. No way should this type of typical, run of the mill intercourse be causing him so much distress. Jamie took his time breaching Sherlock’s body, head thrown back, and eyes closed.

Finally, _finally_ , Sherlock felt Jamie bottom out, and he unclasped his hands, and raised his head slightly, only to have Jamie bend forward, push it back down into the mattress, grab a fistful of Sherlock’s dark hair, and begin thrusting forward.

‘God, Sherlock,’ he groaned, his voice muffled as one of Sherlock’s ears was crammed uncomfortably into the bed, ‘ _Jesus_ , you feel _divine_ , my love. That ex of yours hasn’t ruined you after all; despite all those cocks you’ve sucked and fucked, you still feel _glorious_. Oh, you gorgeous thing, you make me just want to-’ and he slammed into Sherlock with all his might, moving his grip from Sherlock’s hair to his shoulders, fingers digging in deep enough to hurt, and began to fuck into Sherlock like he wanted to pound him through the mattress. Any jittery arousal Sherlock had been feeling while Jamie prepared him had long since vanished as his body struggled to accommodate the sudden onslaught.

Sherlock cried out at the abrupt change of tempo, but quickly shoved his knuckles into his mouth to avoid making too much noise and alerting one of the nurses or security guards. His other hand scrabbled for purchase against the bed, and he tried desperately to push up off the bed, but Jamie was deceptively strong.

‘Oh, don’t love,’ he was panting, ‘Just stay down, there’s a good lad. Just take it, you magnificent slag. Oh, Sherlock, I bloody love you, you amazing fucking marvel. Christ, I can see why your boyfriend loaned you out. You are an absolute vision, that arse of yours taking my prick, it’s no wonder. I wish I could have seen it, seen them wreck you, you delicious slut. You were made for this, Sherlock, you were made to take cock. Oh, I love you. I love you.’

And with that, he climaxed, sinking his teeth hard into Sherlock’s shoulder and slamming into Sherlock once final time, before collapsing across his back, breathing heavily. Sherlock stayed frozen, waiting anxious to see what Jamie would do next, the hurt from Jamie’s horrible words still radiating out from his chest even worse than the bite mark.

A few moments later, Jamie pulled out and rolled over, pushing gently until Sherlock was on his back as well.

‘Oh, that was magnificent, everything I imagined it would be,’ he said, sighing dreamily, but then his eyes narrowed, and he propped himself up on one arm, ‘But you still haven’t gotten off. Touch yourself now, there’s a good lad.’

Sherlock’s brows knit together in reluctance, ‘Must I?’ he asked, struggling to keep his voice steady.

‘Of course. That was the whole point,’ Jamie said, his tone light, but his smile didn’t quite meet his eyes, ‘I want to see you. I want to watch you come apart, and I want you to be thinking of me whilst you do it.’

‘But I don’t-’ Sherlock protested desperately, but Jamie had apparently had enough of Sherlock’s objections, because he snatched Sherlock’s hand in his, and wrapped both their hands around Sherlock’s limp cock, and began expertly stroking him, pulling Sherlock’s body flush against his, and grinding his now soft cock against Sherlock’s aching arse.

‘Come on now, Sherlock, just let me see. Just give it to me. Oh, you are beautiful like this. I can feel you shaking. Don’t be scared, love, it’s only me. God, you are so responsive. You really do love it, don’t you, being taken like a whore. If you don’t come soon, I might be ready to go again. I’d love to feel you come with my cock in your arse. Is that what you want, for me to fuck you again and again until we both come?’ Jamie whispered, words tumbling from his mouth pressed against Sherlock’s ear, rocking against his backside.

‘No!’ Sherlock cried, and thankfully, blessedly, he finally tipped over the brink, and shot his release all over his and Jamie’s clasped hands, his whole body going rigid. He brought his free hand to cover his face, furiously wiping away tears.

Jamie let go of him then, and wiped his hand on the bedcover that was shoved haphazardly against the wall, and gave Sherlock his signature mad grin when he saw Sherlock wrinkle his nose in disgust, despite himself.

‘I want to smell you later on my sheets later, once it’s lights out, and I’m left here alone,’ he said cheekily, all traces of the darkness and danger gone, ‘I want to replay this afternoon over and over. I might never wash this duvet again, if I can help it.’

Sherlock shivered again, and wordlessly reached for his clothes, his arse and shoulder positively aching. He thought idly that he would likely need someone to clean and dress the wound on his shoulder, but knew he would die of a bacterial infection before he went to the infirmary for it. He grit his teeth against the pain, and forced himself to dress as quickly as his wrung-out body and trembling hands would allow. Jamie watched him silently, stretched out across his bed, and still completely, unashamedly nude.

‘You leaving, then?’ Jamie asked lazily once Sherlock was fully dressed again.

‘Uhm, yes, I think so,’ Sherlock answered, trying mightily to keep the tremor from his voice, ‘I think I should… You know… Clean up a bit before dinner. If… If that’s okay?’

‘Of course, love,’ Jamie said, giggling, ‘I’m not your master or anything. You needn’t ask my permission to have a shower. At any rate, I’m sure you’ll have plenty to remember me by even without my sweat on your skin.’

Sherlock flinched, but nodded, and made to exit Jamie’s room, pausing only once he got to the doorway. He hesitated, then turned back to face Jamie, who had still not moved from the bed.

‘You… You said I could maybe have some more, you know, cocaine? If we… Did that?’ He hated himself desperately for asking, but right then, the feeling of being fucked out and hurt and helpless was so familiar that the want for more cocaine was visceral.

Jamie cocked his head to one side before giving Sherlock another smile that Sherlock couldn’t quite read. ‘I’m afraid we just imbibed in the last of it, love,’ he said breezily, ‘But I should get more soon, and I’ll give it to you then. I won’t forget, don’t you worry.’

‘Okay,’ Sherlock replied quietly, because there wasn’t anything else he _could_ say, and turned again to leave, though not before seeing Jamie roll over, and bury his face into the blanket that had been sullied with the evidence of what had just taken place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: dub-con, bordering on non-con, forced orgasm, slut shaming, manipulation, 
> 
> Sherlock continues his physical relationship with Jamie, though he does not feel any sort of romantic attachment. Eventually, Sherlock begins to feel fondly towards it, because he is getting companionship and cocaine from it, Jamie is getting blowjobs and a distraction. After weeks of this dynamic, Jamie casually (at first) mentions he would like to have intercourse with Sherlock, who is initially reluctant, but after much pressuring and coercion from Jamie, he agrees. Jamie promises to go slowly, and be gentle, but once they start he becomes rougher and rougher, and begins bringing up all sorts of references to Sherlock's past abusive relationship as dirty talk. He finally finishes, but once he realises Sherlock hasn't, he further coerces/forces Sherlock to orgasm. Sherlock is left feeling emotional and slightly traumatised, because even though Jamie returns to his regular light, airy self, the entire act has left Sherlock unsteady and triggered.


End file.
